Wifi connection at the gas station is kaput… been like that the last week and on this windy Monday night, still is. Oh well, guess there will be times such as this…
*****
Tick tock tick tock… long weekend’s almost here! And what do I have planned for such an occasion? Well, there’s the laundry… and maybe a little overdue home repairs. Yes, without the benefit of cash, I am doomed to spend the long weekend at home. No worries, wouldn’t want to join the mob lined up at the toll gates and side streets anyway.
And speaking of out of town trips, Nolan and I were talking over the weekend and he suggested I try our writing some sort of travelogue… the kind that makes it on travel magazines and in-flight reading materials. Hmm, seems simple enough, I thought, maybe I should? Topic, we agreed, would be our Calaguas Island adventure not so long ago. Trouble was that I did try to write about it but found myself coughing up bits and pieces of information that certainly did not paint a clear picture of the trip nor much of how fun and relaxing it was. So here I am, doing it over… ahem ahem…
*****
A few kilometers off the coast of Camarines Norte, the Calagua Islands has been whispered among the community of weekend adventurers as one of the archipelago’s best kept secrets. Tales of powdery white sands, pristine waters and rolling hills isolated from the general populace only adds to its allure, and being smack in the middle of the typhoon belt, only the brave dare to go forth with this adventure. Surprisingly, I found myself headed south from Manila to try my luck.
The drive starts from the urban jungle of Metropolitan Manila at midnight, a convoy of 2 cars with 4 passengers each. The 6 hour journey that will take us to the sleepy town of Vinzons, Camarines Sur speeds us through highways, winding roads and mountain passes, including a notable stint across Quezon’s well preserved primary rain forests that make up the Quezon National Park. Daybreak finds us crossing the regional boundary between Quezon and Camarines Norte, at the foot of Mt. Elena and soon we found ourselves having breakfast in the rustic ancestral home of Vinzons’ native, Arch. Obey Ferrer, who also made arrangements for the boat which would taxi us to the Calaguas and back.
We hurriedly got our things together for the morning’s boat ride to the Calaguas, loading our gear aboard a fishing boat docked at the riverside. The tide was about to shift making the river journey quite treacherous, the boat could easily bottom out under unskilled hands, but we were nonetheless treated to a magnificent view of nipa plants lining the river as well as a preview of the famed Bagasbas beach from the river delta. Upon reaching the open sea, our boat was rocked by the Pacific swells, making known the great ocean that lay at our foremast, and on the horizon we could make out the tiny blips of land that was to be our destination.
The boat ride took 2 hours, and by then we were cruising past dark cliffs, green hills and of course, white sand beaches in their protective coves. Small fishing boats were afloat, cast off from these islands with a population of more or less a hundred people. If you wanted isolation, these islands offered a lot of it. At last, the boat beached itself in a large cove, lined with probably a third of a kilometer of the finest white sand that you could plant your feet on. Save for 3 nipa huts that the locals had erected as shelter for the occasional visitors, there was nothing by way of a resort on the island. Just the clear calm waters, the green hills and the splendid white sand beach in between.
As luck would have it, we chanced upon a sunny day filled with blue skies and white clouds. The sun burned our skins but the sand was never too hot for our bare feet as the lot of us frolicked in it and swam in the water the whole day. Some locals who whiled time away in the cove offered to get us water for drinking and bathing at very reasonable prices, and one could also ask them to cook some of the freshest catch from the sea bought from the fishing villages on the other side of the island.
Under the right conditions, the beach proves to be a great spot for die-hard landscape photographers with a multitude of natural subjects and the clearest blues and whites as a backdrop. And as the afternoon sun sets on the horizon, the sand plays host to our little tent city lit with a bonfire, roasting our dinners and warming our spirits underneath a bejeweled sky.
The journey back was filled with fond memories of this isolated landscape, and all the effort and time invested in this little pilgrimage was well worth it. As the early morning found us back in the congested metropolis, that small speck of land will always occupy a large chunk of our minds of what a weekend getaway is supposed to be like.
*****
For those of you who made the journey with me, I obviously left out some “minor” details that could be correctly construed as one of those unfortunate freak accidents. But I’m sure you’ll agree with me that though bothersome, it hadn’t drenched out good memories of the place at all, further fortifying our collective resolve to Never Stop Exploring (to borrow a phrase from Jundel’s TNF, hehehe).
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
More rodent fantasies (I've really got to stop with this rodent thing)
Huge mistake today... I took out the rent money from my ATM account, was going to make the deposit in the bank, but I got too lazy and decided that tomorrow was probably a better day to do that chore. Now, I'm sitting here with the money in my pocket, burning a rather large hole. My fear is that somehow, I would "lose" the money on a number of things, foremost of which would probably be the groceries and/or an ipod.
*****
So I've read that local basketball has turned horribly wrong, with a player mauling a fan. We all know what's going to happen, player gets fined, suspended and maybe even banned from basketball. The fan, well, he got beaten up already, too bad.
This might be a good time to think up new ways to keep fans from being pummeled by athletes. For one, maybe basketball should be a caged match, or at least played within the confines of a glass/plastic panel similar to that being employed in pro-hockey. It would probably cost a bit more, but that is cheap compared to outfitting everyone in the audience with helmets and padded suits.
But then again, sometimes fans do want to get into the thick of the action. Consider the running of the bulls, now I can't for the life of me figure out why people would knowingly put themselves in harms way to enjoy this. Sure, taunting the beast is fun, but then it's another matter when they get the better of the situation and gorge your ass with their horns. Unlike basketball players, I doubt if a fine or suspension would teach the bulls a lesson.
*****
Speaking of beasts, I am inspired to start a new contest involving some of our more furrier friends. As a kid, I've been witness to quite a number of spider, fish and even "salagubang" fights. Then there's the popular cockfights, dogfights and even carabao and horse fights. But I've never heard of hamster fights. That's right, time to get these furballs into shape in a life or death duel. My plan is to breed these little rodents into lean, mean, fighting machines out to dominate the rest of their specie. No more of that cute and cuddly image, it's time these bozos learn to earn their keep.
So how does one go about training these guys? Well, I'm not exactly sure. They do seem like sloths, don't they? And checking out their kind in the pet stores, they seem more intent on licking their privates and humping each other than knocking the living daylights out of the other guy. Maybe if I start inbreeding them I'd be able to produce a mutation. Shock therapy wouldn't be the worst idea either. A few doses a day of 12V through them should incite them to get angry, shouldn't it?
To make it even more interesting, maybe a cross-specie rumble would be entertaining? 3 Hamsters up against a lone guinea pig? Reminds me of Roman gladiators thrashing up the arena. Hamsters versus guinea pigs, claw against claw, incisors against incisors, then add a mouse and a bunny in the fray and you'd have all the makings of a true cross-specie royal rumble! Find out the true champion of the rodent world!
But wait, there's more! The rodents finally realize that they are fighting their own kind, kinda like Care Bears versus Care Bear Cousins, they make a pact to unite and take on their natural enemies, the Cat! Though it would seem like a lopsided contest in feline-dom's favor, remember that rodents do one thing very efficiently, breed. Easily, a single household could find itself overrun by rats given a few months. And that extends to their cousins as well. Imagine an army of a hundred hamsters and rabbits, out for cat tail. My my, that would be a sight indeed. Even the Pied Piper must've had goose bumps being followed by hundreds of rats, these cats wouldn't stand a chance. All the rodents need to do is act all cute and cuddly and stuff themselves into the feline's mouth, until kitty kat explodes with vermin. Eep!
*****
So I've read that local basketball has turned horribly wrong, with a player mauling a fan. We all know what's going to happen, player gets fined, suspended and maybe even banned from basketball. The fan, well, he got beaten up already, too bad.
This might be a good time to think up new ways to keep fans from being pummeled by athletes. For one, maybe basketball should be a caged match, or at least played within the confines of a glass/plastic panel similar to that being employed in pro-hockey. It would probably cost a bit more, but that is cheap compared to outfitting everyone in the audience with helmets and padded suits.
But then again, sometimes fans do want to get into the thick of the action. Consider the running of the bulls, now I can't for the life of me figure out why people would knowingly put themselves in harms way to enjoy this. Sure, taunting the beast is fun, but then it's another matter when they get the better of the situation and gorge your ass with their horns. Unlike basketball players, I doubt if a fine or suspension would teach the bulls a lesson.
*****
Speaking of beasts, I am inspired to start a new contest involving some of our more furrier friends. As a kid, I've been witness to quite a number of spider, fish and even "salagubang" fights. Then there's the popular cockfights, dogfights and even carabao and horse fights. But I've never heard of hamster fights. That's right, time to get these furballs into shape in a life or death duel. My plan is to breed these little rodents into lean, mean, fighting machines out to dominate the rest of their specie. No more of that cute and cuddly image, it's time these bozos learn to earn their keep.
So how does one go about training these guys? Well, I'm not exactly sure. They do seem like sloths, don't they? And checking out their kind in the pet stores, they seem more intent on licking their privates and humping each other than knocking the living daylights out of the other guy. Maybe if I start inbreeding them I'd be able to produce a mutation. Shock therapy wouldn't be the worst idea either. A few doses a day of 12V through them should incite them to get angry, shouldn't it?
To make it even more interesting, maybe a cross-specie rumble would be entertaining? 3 Hamsters up against a lone guinea pig? Reminds me of Roman gladiators thrashing up the arena. Hamsters versus guinea pigs, claw against claw, incisors against incisors, then add a mouse and a bunny in the fray and you'd have all the makings of a true cross-specie royal rumble! Find out the true champion of the rodent world!
But wait, there's more! The rodents finally realize that they are fighting their own kind, kinda like Care Bears versus Care Bear Cousins, they make a pact to unite and take on their natural enemies, the Cat! Though it would seem like a lopsided contest in feline-dom's favor, remember that rodents do one thing very efficiently, breed. Easily, a single household could find itself overrun by rats given a few months. And that extends to their cousins as well. Imagine an army of a hundred hamsters and rabbits, out for cat tail. My my, that would be a sight indeed. Even the Pied Piper must've had goose bumps being followed by hundreds of rats, these cats wouldn't stand a chance. All the rodents need to do is act all cute and cuddly and stuff themselves into the feline's mouth, until kitty kat explodes with vermin. Eep!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Stop talking to that sweaty sock!
I made my way home past 5am this morning, the 10-hour non-airconditioned bus ride from nowhere had made me 5 kilograms heavier with soot and dust. I lay my bag on the sofa, and took a large gulp of Pepsi Max from the refrigerator, followed by a generous burp. Home was definitely a great place to be after an adventure.
I walked towards the CR and heard a peep from my old buddies, the laundry. “Psst, hey boss, how was the trip?”
“Pretty good, actually. Thanks for asking.”
“Got us anything?”
“No, didn’t even get anything for myself.”
“Selfish prick.”
“Hey! Watch your mouth or I scrub them with soap!” Thinking back, that couldn’t have been the best retort to their stinky lot.
“(Snickers) Do you think you’d be able to do a batch of us before you go to sleep?”
“I doubt it, pretty tired. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Hmm, hey fellas, anyone know how many underpants this loser still has?” Their leader, the stinky sock, asks the mob underneath.
“Yeah, he’s down to his last one!”
“Looks like a busy day for you tomorrow, bub! Hahahaha!” I hate that sock.
“Shut up, asswipes. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I close the door and insulate myself from the laughing mob.
I take a shower, instantly feeling better and lighter. The drain gobbles up most of the soot and dust and the chlorinated water feels good against my skin after a day’s worth of hard deepwell water. I dry my hair with the towel and open the door once again to the laundry, ready to toss the towel in to cover that stinky sock.
“Hey boss, we were thinking…”
“That’s a stretch.”
“We don’t like that clunky old washing machine that you’ve got.”
“How so?”
“It’s tearing us up to pieces. Have you seen your old dress sock recently? The elastic band has been stretched to its limits. Not to mention your tidy whities over there. They look like they’ve seen better years, if you catch my drift.” I look at the old washing machine and wonder what the fuss was all about.
“I set it on delicate, guys, you can’t be serious about getting pummeled as much as on the perma press setting.”
“The wash is okay, but the spin cycle…” Yes, I do realize I’ve been setting the spin dryer to the maximum 5 minute mark.
“So you’re suggesting I not use the spin dryer?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I can’t not use it. Do you know how hard it is to wring each one of you? Specially those blue denims?”
“I was talking to your Barong Tagalog back in the closet, seems like he’s been to the cleaners recently. Did you know that they don’t spin dry over there?” Number one: I can’t figure out how this sweat sock got into a conversation with the barong, he is usually in the sock drawer while the barong is hung in the main cabinet. Number two, I actually have no idea what the guys at the cleaner do with my stuff.
“So what do they do over there, anyway?”
“They tumble dry.”
“And you’re point, being?”
“Maybe you should get one of those electric tumble dryers.”
“Or maybe I should get more sensible socks?”
“Hey, it’s not just me, bub. Ask the other guys.” They were all nodding in agreement. Effin’ ingrates!
“Do you even know how much one of those things cost? Not to mention how much electricity they consume?”
“Well, of course, you’re the boss of us. But do you remember that nasty rash that you got when you wrung that blue shirt of your’s a bit too much?” Hmm, I do recall the rash, but didn’t think it was because of me wringing my shirt.
“So you’re actually blackmailing me? And at this early hour?” The stinky sock grins a reply.
I close the door and mumble curses at the laundry. I will not be blackmailed by such a stinky bunch! I go into my room and fell asleep almost instantly. Curiously enough, I woke up to this nightmare involving my clothes instantly shredding themselves off me while I’m doing the groceries. Great.
I walked towards the CR and heard a peep from my old buddies, the laundry. “Psst, hey boss, how was the trip?”
“Pretty good, actually. Thanks for asking.”
“Got us anything?”
“No, didn’t even get anything for myself.”
“Selfish prick.”
“Hey! Watch your mouth or I scrub them with soap!” Thinking back, that couldn’t have been the best retort to their stinky lot.
“(Snickers) Do you think you’d be able to do a batch of us before you go to sleep?”
“I doubt it, pretty tired. Maybe tomorrow?”
“Hmm, hey fellas, anyone know how many underpants this loser still has?” Their leader, the stinky sock, asks the mob underneath.
“Yeah, he’s down to his last one!”
“Looks like a busy day for you tomorrow, bub! Hahahaha!” I hate that sock.
“Shut up, asswipes. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I close the door and insulate myself from the laughing mob.
I take a shower, instantly feeling better and lighter. The drain gobbles up most of the soot and dust and the chlorinated water feels good against my skin after a day’s worth of hard deepwell water. I dry my hair with the towel and open the door once again to the laundry, ready to toss the towel in to cover that stinky sock.
“Hey boss, we were thinking…”
“That’s a stretch.”
“We don’t like that clunky old washing machine that you’ve got.”
“How so?”
“It’s tearing us up to pieces. Have you seen your old dress sock recently? The elastic band has been stretched to its limits. Not to mention your tidy whities over there. They look like they’ve seen better years, if you catch my drift.” I look at the old washing machine and wonder what the fuss was all about.
“I set it on delicate, guys, you can’t be serious about getting pummeled as much as on the perma press setting.”
“The wash is okay, but the spin cycle…” Yes, I do realize I’ve been setting the spin dryer to the maximum 5 minute mark.
“So you’re suggesting I not use the spin dryer?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I can’t not use it. Do you know how hard it is to wring each one of you? Specially those blue denims?”
“I was talking to your Barong Tagalog back in the closet, seems like he’s been to the cleaners recently. Did you know that they don’t spin dry over there?” Number one: I can’t figure out how this sweat sock got into a conversation with the barong, he is usually in the sock drawer while the barong is hung in the main cabinet. Number two, I actually have no idea what the guys at the cleaner do with my stuff.
“So what do they do over there, anyway?”
“They tumble dry.”
“And you’re point, being?”
“Maybe you should get one of those electric tumble dryers.”
“Or maybe I should get more sensible socks?”
“Hey, it’s not just me, bub. Ask the other guys.” They were all nodding in agreement. Effin’ ingrates!
“Do you even know how much one of those things cost? Not to mention how much electricity they consume?”
“Well, of course, you’re the boss of us. But do you remember that nasty rash that you got when you wrung that blue shirt of your’s a bit too much?” Hmm, I do recall the rash, but didn’t think it was because of me wringing my shirt.
“So you’re actually blackmailing me? And at this early hour?” The stinky sock grins a reply.
I close the door and mumble curses at the laundry. I will not be blackmailed by such a stinky bunch! I go into my room and fell asleep almost instantly. Curiously enough, I woke up to this nightmare involving my clothes instantly shredding themselves off me while I’m doing the groceries. Great.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Smoked Out
Every so often, usually after a long absence, the gas station rejects me. It's either my seat stays occupied by someone else way beyond my saturation point, or the free Wi-Fi gives and I am forced to play minesweeper or *gasp* work. This time, it chose a more sinister and life threatening tact to get rid of me... it's smoking me out.
Being situated right smack in between the highway and a few hectares of rice paddies, the gas station is subject to smoke from the farmers burning off their waste. It's a usual practice intended to give the soil back some of the nutrition that it lost during the season. But of course, it's bothersome nonetheless. There's really no point in quitting smoking when you subject yourself to this phenomenon. I stand my ground though, hopeful that the wind would shift and save me from choking to death.
After a few minutes, the wind changes direction and I am able to breathe normal air again. I light a stick of cigarette during this pleasant break, quite ironic, isn't it?
*****
A new found friend of mine sent me a link to "Rainbow Connection" as sung by Kermit the Frog. I couldn't believe that I forgot this version of the song... I generally remember most of the skits on Sesame Streets growing up, but until I saw this one, it was lost to me. The video suddenly brought back memories of early morning cartoons, as well as the cartoon parade every Saturday morning. I owe these muppets and cartoons a lot, after all they were my first teachers in the English language.
My family wasn't really big on speaking English at home. Amongst us, communication was a mix of Ilonggo and Tagalog and very rarely did my parents switch to English unless... well, never actually. But even then, they had the wisdom to keep the television on for us kids to absorb. They didn't bother to translate Bugs Bunny's dry humor into the dialect, they trusted those animated friends of ours to impart an understanding that would serve us well in school. (In retrospect, Coyote and Roadrunner were too stingy and never taught us anything in the field of linguistics save for the occasional beep-beep and an introduction to the Acme Manufacturing Company) I suspect though that our parents appreciated the calming effects of television on sugar-high powered toddlers more than any educational benefit.
When we got a bit older, we graduated from cartoons to watching canned programming and movies on Betamax. English was now more complicated than "beep-beep" and "Hi, I'm Kermit the Frog here for Sesame Street News!". There was more to this language than what was actually uttered! We were introduced to the "non-literal" side of the language. Vocabulary was also improving, and now we had an awareness of proper grammar. This served me well in grade school and even in high school. I could never identify what a past-participle was nor tell if it was tensed past-perfect. But I knew what "sounded" right and what was horribly out of syntax, this saved me from flunking a lot of English classes.
*****
Do I have a point? Well, not really. Was just babbling as usual. You see, over the years I've received some compliments with regards to my use of English. They usually ask where I went to school and immediately assume that's where I learned it. So I smile and don't bother telling the truth. It's kinda weird answering "I learned it all from Saturday morning cartoons."
Being situated right smack in between the highway and a few hectares of rice paddies, the gas station is subject to smoke from the farmers burning off their waste. It's a usual practice intended to give the soil back some of the nutrition that it lost during the season. But of course, it's bothersome nonetheless. There's really no point in quitting smoking when you subject yourself to this phenomenon. I stand my ground though, hopeful that the wind would shift and save me from choking to death.
After a few minutes, the wind changes direction and I am able to breathe normal air again. I light a stick of cigarette during this pleasant break, quite ironic, isn't it?
*****
A new found friend of mine sent me a link to "Rainbow Connection" as sung by Kermit the Frog. I couldn't believe that I forgot this version of the song... I generally remember most of the skits on Sesame Streets growing up, but until I saw this one, it was lost to me. The video suddenly brought back memories of early morning cartoons, as well as the cartoon parade every Saturday morning. I owe these muppets and cartoons a lot, after all they were my first teachers in the English language.
My family wasn't really big on speaking English at home. Amongst us, communication was a mix of Ilonggo and Tagalog and very rarely did my parents switch to English unless... well, never actually. But even then, they had the wisdom to keep the television on for us kids to absorb. They didn't bother to translate Bugs Bunny's dry humor into the dialect, they trusted those animated friends of ours to impart an understanding that would serve us well in school. (In retrospect, Coyote and Roadrunner were too stingy and never taught us anything in the field of linguistics save for the occasional beep-beep and an introduction to the Acme Manufacturing Company) I suspect though that our parents appreciated the calming effects of television on sugar-high powered toddlers more than any educational benefit.
When we got a bit older, we graduated from cartoons to watching canned programming and movies on Betamax. English was now more complicated than "beep-beep" and "Hi, I'm Kermit the Frog here for Sesame Street News!". There was more to this language than what was actually uttered! We were introduced to the "non-literal" side of the language. Vocabulary was also improving, and now we had an awareness of proper grammar. This served me well in grade school and even in high school. I could never identify what a past-participle was nor tell if it was tensed past-perfect. But I knew what "sounded" right and what was horribly out of syntax, this saved me from flunking a lot of English classes.
*****
Do I have a point? Well, not really. Was just babbling as usual. You see, over the years I've received some compliments with regards to my use of English. They usually ask where I went to school and immediately assume that's where I learned it. So I smile and don't bother telling the truth. It's kinda weird answering "I learned it all from Saturday morning cartoons."
The Ate Shawie Effect
On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I finally treated myself to watching one of those classic Sharon Cuneta movies, particularly "Bukas Luluhod And Mga Tala". Must say, I can't seem to find any of the newer local flicks today which can compare with such a masterpiece. Of course, I'm not the best resource person for this opinion as I have steered clear of most of the local productions since the late 90's. I did watch "Mano Po", "Muro Ami" and even that Rizal flick, I'd take Ate Shawie anyday.
*****
Talking of movies, I'm almost ashamed to admit that I haven't patronized the silver screen since "Happy Feet". I've contented myself to watching films on the smaller screen, both on DVD and features on the limited number of movie channels that I have access to. I just can't get over the exorbitant prices that come with the big screen experience, specially not when the prices of DVD's have become dirt cheap thanks to video pirates, as well as online streaming and downloading divX files off the internet. Cinemas, I feel, are now reserved for those cheesy boyfriend/girlfriend dates that give both parties the opportunity to hold hands in almost complete darkness, with the option of loading up the bases of course.
Maybe it's because I belong to a generation of kids who remember fifteen peso movies, a time when even the market vendors would take time off and close early to catch their favorite actor or actress in their latest flicks. That was a time when Hollywood didn't necessarily dominate the theaters, and certainly weren't able to compete with FPJ, Ate Shawie, Nora Aunor nor Vilma. Heck, even Weng-weng raked in a respectable following. Video piracy then was limited to a few copies on Betamax, usually a full month or two after the movie had concluded its run in the theaters.
Hmm, but then there's the indie wave that's been popular as of late. Yes, it's still something that only the intellectual elite are able to appreciate, but at least it's a start. This being a departure from the tall tales that are popular at the box office, maybe the masses will soon learn to find themselves in these low-budget features? I don't think so. For starters, it's this realistic element of the indie genre that may prove to be it's greatest flaw. People go to movies to watch something out of the ordinary, either a reflection of their hopes and ideals or a reminder of the worst that is to come. If average Joe wanted a reality check, why go to a movie theater when he can just stay back home and humor himself with real life?
*****
Wow, I seem to be in a preachy mood, aren't I? Maybe I should stick with my original topic, which is my current disdain of movie theaters. Or maybe I should just stop altogether, save myself from the embarrassment of exposing myself as a fraud when it comes to movies and films. After all, how can you talk about something which you admit to have not patronized for the longest time?
Ah yes, better check myself, something I should have done several paragraphs ago...
*****
Talking of movies, I'm almost ashamed to admit that I haven't patronized the silver screen since "Happy Feet". I've contented myself to watching films on the smaller screen, both on DVD and features on the limited number of movie channels that I have access to. I just can't get over the exorbitant prices that come with the big screen experience, specially not when the prices of DVD's have become dirt cheap thanks to video pirates, as well as online streaming and downloading divX files off the internet. Cinemas, I feel, are now reserved for those cheesy boyfriend/girlfriend dates that give both parties the opportunity to hold hands in almost complete darkness, with the option of loading up the bases of course.
Maybe it's because I belong to a generation of kids who remember fifteen peso movies, a time when even the market vendors would take time off and close early to catch their favorite actor or actress in their latest flicks. That was a time when Hollywood didn't necessarily dominate the theaters, and certainly weren't able to compete with FPJ, Ate Shawie, Nora Aunor nor Vilma. Heck, even Weng-weng raked in a respectable following. Video piracy then was limited to a few copies on Betamax, usually a full month or two after the movie had concluded its run in the theaters.
Hmm, but then there's the indie wave that's been popular as of late. Yes, it's still something that only the intellectual elite are able to appreciate, but at least it's a start. This being a departure from the tall tales that are popular at the box office, maybe the masses will soon learn to find themselves in these low-budget features? I don't think so. For starters, it's this realistic element of the indie genre that may prove to be it's greatest flaw. People go to movies to watch something out of the ordinary, either a reflection of their hopes and ideals or a reminder of the worst that is to come. If average Joe wanted a reality check, why go to a movie theater when he can just stay back home and humor himself with real life?
*****
Wow, I seem to be in a preachy mood, aren't I? Maybe I should stick with my original topic, which is my current disdain of movie theaters. Or maybe I should just stop altogether, save myself from the embarrassment of exposing myself as a fraud when it comes to movies and films. After all, how can you talk about something which you admit to have not patronized for the longest time?
Ah yes, better check myself, something I should have done several paragraphs ago...
Turning to Salt
Missed my gas station. Though I have contentedly been somewhat up to date on my posts, there had been topics and ideas that warranted a post but there simply wasn't time. Oh well...
*****
Once upon a time, I lived for a while in a small town called San Manuel, Pangasinan, right underneath the shadow of the daunting yet then still to be finished San Roque Dam. What was I doing there? Fieldwork in completion of my studies in college. The organization that I worked for was adamantly against the behemoth, and I together with a small group of students, were doing advocacy and organizing work to make the people in the area aware of this impending disaster.
Well, I have to confess that my presence there was rather forced in the beginning. I would have preferred staying with my previous group advocating women's rights and furthering the development and installation of a Barangay Women's Desk at Bagong Silang, Caloocan. That went pfft with this new assignment. The first month was a harsh reality check on what Community Development work was all about. No longer would I have the option of going home to my cozy bed, spending time with friends and running around an area in close proximity to malls and other urban fare. Instead, I would live in various small houses, without the benefit of running water nor electricity, sleeping on the floor or on the bamboo "papag". The dirt road leading to the town proper was dusty when the sun shone, and muddy when the afternoon rains hit. Transportation was considerably more expensive, meaning a lot of walking through rice paddies and all weather roads was called for.
Living like turtles, we carried all our possessions on our backs while we traversed different barangays depending on what our scheduled tasks called for. This was also my introduction to the now familiar chore called the laundry... huddling around a running stream or the singular deepwell together with most of the village folk. After a month of washing in hard water, my tidy whities were transformed to an off-white color and I've developed calluses on my knuckles and palms.
If the college wanted me to experience new things and adapt to a rural environment, they couldn't have picked a better assignment. Being the only other non-Ilocano speakers in the group of 7, I had to learn the dialect in a hurry or risk being forever the subject of practical jokes. There was also the matter of learning what the "movement" was all about, as well as throwing away the existing paradigms I had and embrace this strange new one.
Four months after first stepping off the bus, I graduated, and was soon relearning my old life. My promise of going back to the rice paddies to check up on the work was long forgotten, and the whole experience seemed like another rite of passage that was to be experienced no longer. Eventually the dam was finished, and I sure enough went back to the area as a sell-out. I wanted to do business with the dam-folks, part of the challenges of my new life. Maybe we were wrong that time, maybe progress was being made and that we were so naive, brainwashed to think of it as a ticking time-bomb.
A few days ago, I opened the newspaper to learn that the places that I traversed so many years ago was now underwater. The dam, in an act of self-preservation, had opened its floodgates, flooding the region. I guess back then, we were doing the right thing, sadly though, not doing it well enough. I could only shudder when I try to think of the people who we left behind when we graduated. The families who sheltered, fed and tolerated our presence. Where were they now? Huddled in some evacuation shelter, thoughts on their lost harvest and homes? Hopefully some of them have gone on to better lives, migrated to the city, afforded themselves a better quality of existence. I try not to think of the other alternative, but not thinking about it does not necessarily guarantee that it didn't happen.
It would be convenient to say "I told you so.". Or that we tried our best but we were powerless to stop it. At one point or another, each one of us in the group had lapses, doubting the work, wondering if we were doing the right thing or merely being puppets to a conflict that started a generation before us. Maybe if we hadn't the outcome would be different? Had we been too concerned about our own inconveniences to have been more effective doing the work we were supposed to do? No one can tell, not now anyway.
*****
Once upon a time, I lived for a while in a small town called San Manuel, Pangasinan, right underneath the shadow of the daunting yet then still to be finished San Roque Dam. What was I doing there? Fieldwork in completion of my studies in college. The organization that I worked for was adamantly against the behemoth, and I together with a small group of students, were doing advocacy and organizing work to make the people in the area aware of this impending disaster.
Well, I have to confess that my presence there was rather forced in the beginning. I would have preferred staying with my previous group advocating women's rights and furthering the development and installation of a Barangay Women's Desk at Bagong Silang, Caloocan. That went pfft with this new assignment. The first month was a harsh reality check on what Community Development work was all about. No longer would I have the option of going home to my cozy bed, spending time with friends and running around an area in close proximity to malls and other urban fare. Instead, I would live in various small houses, without the benefit of running water nor electricity, sleeping on the floor or on the bamboo "papag". The dirt road leading to the town proper was dusty when the sun shone, and muddy when the afternoon rains hit. Transportation was considerably more expensive, meaning a lot of walking through rice paddies and all weather roads was called for.
Living like turtles, we carried all our possessions on our backs while we traversed different barangays depending on what our scheduled tasks called for. This was also my introduction to the now familiar chore called the laundry... huddling around a running stream or the singular deepwell together with most of the village folk. After a month of washing in hard water, my tidy whities were transformed to an off-white color and I've developed calluses on my knuckles and palms.
If the college wanted me to experience new things and adapt to a rural environment, they couldn't have picked a better assignment. Being the only other non-Ilocano speakers in the group of 7, I had to learn the dialect in a hurry or risk being forever the subject of practical jokes. There was also the matter of learning what the "movement" was all about, as well as throwing away the existing paradigms I had and embrace this strange new one.
Four months after first stepping off the bus, I graduated, and was soon relearning my old life. My promise of going back to the rice paddies to check up on the work was long forgotten, and the whole experience seemed like another rite of passage that was to be experienced no longer. Eventually the dam was finished, and I sure enough went back to the area as a sell-out. I wanted to do business with the dam-folks, part of the challenges of my new life. Maybe we were wrong that time, maybe progress was being made and that we were so naive, brainwashed to think of it as a ticking time-bomb.
A few days ago, I opened the newspaper to learn that the places that I traversed so many years ago was now underwater. The dam, in an act of self-preservation, had opened its floodgates, flooding the region. I guess back then, we were doing the right thing, sadly though, not doing it well enough. I could only shudder when I try to think of the people who we left behind when we graduated. The families who sheltered, fed and tolerated our presence. Where were they now? Huddled in some evacuation shelter, thoughts on their lost harvest and homes? Hopefully some of them have gone on to better lives, migrated to the city, afforded themselves a better quality of existence. I try not to think of the other alternative, but not thinking about it does not necessarily guarantee that it didn't happen.
It would be convenient to say "I told you so.". Or that we tried our best but we were powerless to stop it. At one point or another, each one of us in the group had lapses, doubting the work, wondering if we were doing the right thing or merely being puppets to a conflict that started a generation before us. Maybe if we hadn't the outcome would be different? Had we been too concerned about our own inconveniences to have been more effective doing the work we were supposed to do? No one can tell, not now anyway.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Breakfast Puffs
Southbound on the SLEX, I usually make a breakfast stop at this gas station. They've got dirt cheap brewed coffee and mustard smeared hotdog sandwiches. Pretty convenient, yes, until this morning, that is.
I checked out the steamer first, no regular hotdogs in sight, only the slightly more expensive german franks, which I was actually visualizing during the drive to, anyway. Two pots full of brewed coffee, no problem there. Then I noticed it, and alarm bells rang in my head, it was the second consecutive day that the delivery van failed to unload any Philip Morris products on the shelves, yes that meant my precious Marloboros! To make matters worse, they didn't get a delivery of my previous brand of Winstons as well. There were only 3 options left for us chain-smoking idiots, Mild Seven, Hope and Fortune. God help me in this dark hour...
I weigh my options, Mild Seven, a Japanese favorite, was an imported brand and thus priced appropriately, a cool ninety bucks. Fortune was on the other end of the price spectrum and Hope is priced almost similarly as the Winstons and Marlboros. On the taste... more of the same spectral positions, really. Mild Seven was the more palatable of the trio... Hope reminds me of streetwalkers while Fortune meant I'd have to spit out a generous amount of tar-tainted saliva with each puff. Another option that was NOT on the table was to postpone my after breakfast treat a mere 10 minutes until I got to the sari-sari store that is near the office. Breakfast is, after all, the most important meal of the day.
Being a smoker over the better part of the decade (okay, a bit more, actually), I've come across these brands at some time in my life and learned to appreciate them one way or the other. Let's talk about Mild Seven (MS) first. MS came to our house along with YSL and Davidoff brands once every 3 months early in my college 'career'. My dad has a friend who bought these from Zamboanga's markets and gave a ream each as a present. I saw it fit to smuggle some for my own consumption and preferred the rather bland tasting MS to both other brands. I guess my patronage of MS was due to its availability, being free definitely earns some bias. Of course, whenever I'd consumed the last of the freebies, I'd switch back to better tasting Mediums, Silvers and Super Selects, or even the local Reds as more and more of my allowance began to patronize 'Saint Micheal'.
Hope is where it all began, my dad smoked this or Philip Morris when I was in high school, depending on what raffle gimmick was ongoing at the time. Thus, I learned this filthy habit courtesy of this brand, historically favored by construction workers, streetwalkers, carpenters and street urchins because of their cheapness and that strong menthol kick. Sucking on these babies was like chomping on 2 Storck candies while inhaling incense.
Finally, Fortune. It tastes much like burnt rubber, and has a really earthy after-taste. Nevertheless, back when I was stuck in the rice paddies of Pangasinan, poverty and desperation made me love these cancer-inducing little suckers. Well, actually, I still preferred the even cheaper Memphis brand to Fortune, but that particular brand was only available in 2 of the 4 barangays I lived in, and the only other affordable alternative was the reverse-action-filter-less La Campana. The name Fortune was well thought of in those parts...
So after reviewing my choices, I finally forced myself to decide and bought myself a pack. I'm not revealing which brand I chose, in case you were wondering, I might forfeit my chance to get to that Marlboroland in the sky and get shot down to La Campana hell. Puff, breathe in, exhale... life is good.
I checked out the steamer first, no regular hotdogs in sight, only the slightly more expensive german franks, which I was actually visualizing during the drive to, anyway. Two pots full of brewed coffee, no problem there. Then I noticed it, and alarm bells rang in my head, it was the second consecutive day that the delivery van failed to unload any Philip Morris products on the shelves, yes that meant my precious Marloboros! To make matters worse, they didn't get a delivery of my previous brand of Winstons as well. There were only 3 options left for us chain-smoking idiots, Mild Seven, Hope and Fortune. God help me in this dark hour...
I weigh my options, Mild Seven, a Japanese favorite, was an imported brand and thus priced appropriately, a cool ninety bucks. Fortune was on the other end of the price spectrum and Hope is priced almost similarly as the Winstons and Marlboros. On the taste... more of the same spectral positions, really. Mild Seven was the more palatable of the trio... Hope reminds me of streetwalkers while Fortune meant I'd have to spit out a generous amount of tar-tainted saliva with each puff. Another option that was NOT on the table was to postpone my after breakfast treat a mere 10 minutes until I got to the sari-sari store that is near the office. Breakfast is, after all, the most important meal of the day.
Being a smoker over the better part of the decade (okay, a bit more, actually), I've come across these brands at some time in my life and learned to appreciate them one way or the other. Let's talk about Mild Seven (MS) first. MS came to our house along with YSL and Davidoff brands once every 3 months early in my college 'career'. My dad has a friend who bought these from Zamboanga's markets and gave a ream each as a present. I saw it fit to smuggle some for my own consumption and preferred the rather bland tasting MS to both other brands. I guess my patronage of MS was due to its availability, being free definitely earns some bias. Of course, whenever I'd consumed the last of the freebies, I'd switch back to better tasting Mediums, Silvers and Super Selects, or even the local Reds as more and more of my allowance began to patronize 'Saint Micheal'.
Hope is where it all began, my dad smoked this or Philip Morris when I was in high school, depending on what raffle gimmick was ongoing at the time. Thus, I learned this filthy habit courtesy of this brand, historically favored by construction workers, streetwalkers, carpenters and street urchins because of their cheapness and that strong menthol kick. Sucking on these babies was like chomping on 2 Storck candies while inhaling incense.
Finally, Fortune. It tastes much like burnt rubber, and has a really earthy after-taste. Nevertheless, back when I was stuck in the rice paddies of Pangasinan, poverty and desperation made me love these cancer-inducing little suckers. Well, actually, I still preferred the even cheaper Memphis brand to Fortune, but that particular brand was only available in 2 of the 4 barangays I lived in, and the only other affordable alternative was the reverse-action-filter-less La Campana. The name Fortune was well thought of in those parts...
So after reviewing my choices, I finally forced myself to decide and bought myself a pack. I'm not revealing which brand I chose, in case you were wondering, I might forfeit my chance to get to that Marlboroland in the sky and get shot down to La Campana hell. Puff, breathe in, exhale... life is good.
It's a friggin' no-brainer... but still, someone's got to do it.
Ironically, one of the reasons that I got hired was because I didn't talk much. My would-be boss perceived this as an eagerness to listen, a quality that he thought was missing in most salespeople. There were two of us being interviewed that day, we knew each other well from our days in our college fraternity. He went first, and upon coming back, I asked him what happened. He says it was hard to tell, he answered all the questions and then expounded on each topic. He babbled like he never babbled before, this was a sales position, after all. His interview took three quarters of an hour. I was next, and the moment I sat there, I thought of every little anecdote that I could lay on the guy. Something witty, smart, something to impress upon him that I was someone of substance. Unfortunately, my mind drew a blank and I sat there nodding my head off, saying things like "uh-huh", "not really", "yes, sir", "how so?" and "a little bit" while still thinking of any silly anecdote or story I could trade.
Boy could my would-be boss talk! He looked at my resume, talked to himself about some matter before asking me if that was right, and then went into a full blown monologue about his exploits playing golf at UP, or racing cars with the rival Greeks along Quezon Ave. He asked bits and pieces about my qualifications and my background, almost always recalling some story that he was reminded of looking at my resume. It wasn't much of an interview, I just sat there and did nothing, basically. Easiest interview ever.
The short of it all, I got the job after my 2 hour interview. My friend didn't.
On my first day on the job, he called me to the conference room to sort of orient me about what my job was all about. He realized that he never got to talking about it during my initial interview. This was where he spilled the beans on how I got the job. Those times I sat there with a stupid smile on my face, with a slightly skewed posture because I was trying to get blood back into my butt, he thought I was eagerly listening. When I scratched that imaginary itch, he thought I was deep in thought analyzing some inconsistencies in his story. And my favorite would have to be the times when he thought I was taking notes during the interview (I had a notebook and pen with me), he should have seen my doodle of an M1A1 Abrams battle tank and one-liners written in characters me and my high school buddies invented back in high school. He probably thought, "Boy, this conyo really listens! And he's different from other salespeople who think they can talk and babble their way into a sale. This is what my sales guy should be: observant, analytical, a good listener, and drop-dead handsome, to boot!" So okay, I inserted that last thought myself. Hey, this is my post, I can do whatever I want with it.
Indeed, my ignorance and ability to mentally zone out of potentially important discussions has saved the day yet again! All those semesters spent as a zombie in my Physics 72 and Math 55 classes proved useful after all. Who would've thought I'd get the job by not doing anything? Must be the reason why after 6 years I still do nothing on the job as well.
Boy could my would-be boss talk! He looked at my resume, talked to himself about some matter before asking me if that was right, and then went into a full blown monologue about his exploits playing golf at UP, or racing cars with the rival Greeks along Quezon Ave. He asked bits and pieces about my qualifications and my background, almost always recalling some story that he was reminded of looking at my resume. It wasn't much of an interview, I just sat there and did nothing, basically. Easiest interview ever.
The short of it all, I got the job after my 2 hour interview. My friend didn't.
On my first day on the job, he called me to the conference room to sort of orient me about what my job was all about. He realized that he never got to talking about it during my initial interview. This was where he spilled the beans on how I got the job. Those times I sat there with a stupid smile on my face, with a slightly skewed posture because I was trying to get blood back into my butt, he thought I was eagerly listening. When I scratched that imaginary itch, he thought I was deep in thought analyzing some inconsistencies in his story. And my favorite would have to be the times when he thought I was taking notes during the interview (I had a notebook and pen with me), he should have seen my doodle of an M1A1 Abrams battle tank and one-liners written in characters me and my high school buddies invented back in high school. He probably thought, "Boy, this conyo really listens! And he's different from other salespeople who think they can talk and babble their way into a sale. This is what my sales guy should be: observant, analytical, a good listener, and drop-dead handsome, to boot!" So okay, I inserted that last thought myself. Hey, this is my post, I can do whatever I want with it.
Indeed, my ignorance and ability to mentally zone out of potentially important discussions has saved the day yet again! All those semesters spent as a zombie in my Physics 72 and Math 55 classes proved useful after all. Who would've thought I'd get the job by not doing anything? Must be the reason why after 6 years I still do nothing on the job as well.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Locks and hairs
This feels strange... I had the whole evening planned out. I'd leave the office at around 4:30, go to the gas station to find someone sitting in my seat, so I'd grab some noodle soup at Chowking as well as a small halo-halo. Then I'd check out some shirts at the Nike Outlet store but not buy any, all before I read an issue of Newsweek to catch up on my backlog while having my usual cup of black coffee. By 7:30 my seat would be vacant, hopefully, and then I'd crack some words up to post on my blog. Lo and behold when I got here, all the tables were full, except mine.
This may sound strange to most, but my seat is never vacant at 4:45 in the afternoon.
So what do I do? I get my coffee and set up my laptop. Good bye noodle soup, halo-halo, window-shopping and Newsweek... the time space warp has once again foiled the best laid plans.
*****
Yesterday, I finally convinced myself to get a haircut. Hair was suddenly getting into my eyes, ears and gobbling up massive amounts of shampoo. Too bad really, I was getting used to having all that hair. Gave me something to mess up when I was bored and justified my use of a baseball cap for more casual occasions.
Back in high school, when glam rock was making way for grunge, having long hair was all the rage much to the chagrin of stuffy teachers and pesky parents. I once let my hair grow long enough to cover my face, though not yet long enough to tie it into a ponytail. That would've been so cool, I thought. But my mom had other ideas, and forced me to get a proper haircut by taking her scissors and chopping off a generous portion of my bangs. I looked in the mirror and there was nothing else to be done but go to the barber to try to remedy the situation.
Now in the adult world, no longer under the parental dictatorship that I've had to endure for years, I sometimes entertain the thought of growing my hair long once again. But I guess that won't happen yet, unless I find myself stranded on a deserted island for a year, perhaps. There's that awkward stage where your hair gets really scruffy looking but not long enough to tie up. It's irritating, and unless you wear a baseball cap all the time, just doesn't look good.
*****
At my boss' request, I broke into an office-mate's drawer this afternoon. Thanks to my amazing ability to open some of the toughest locks around the office (in the continuing quest for candies and foodstuff), I am the designated safe-breaker. This, however, was no ordinary lock that she had installed.
The locks on the drawers in the office are usually the inferior kind, easy prey for my small pocketknife. But because of a prior incident which in no way involved me nor my talents, she had the locks changed to a pricier and less vulnerable set. I spent around 20minutes trying to pick the lock but to no avail. This tact was going nowhere, I said to myself. But still undaunted, I tried another approach. The drawers were made of wood, and wood being easy to bend and manipulate, I made the gap between the lock bigger and soon the drawer slid open, revealing what my boss wanted to get.
Now another problem ensued, I couldn't put the drawer back into place. Somehow, the wood sprang back to its original dimensions, and despite my coaxing, the lock jutted and wouldn't fit. I pondered on getting a crowbar and using brute force, but my boss was against it, saying that more damage might be done to the wood. I left the drawer as it was, vulnerable to attacks from petty thieves and food-mongers. For sure, there would be no one else to blame but me, and my boss boarding a flight to Tokyo the next morning, there was to be no witness to the non-crime. crap.
This may sound strange to most, but my seat is never vacant at 4:45 in the afternoon.
So what do I do? I get my coffee and set up my laptop. Good bye noodle soup, halo-halo, window-shopping and Newsweek... the time space warp has once again foiled the best laid plans.
*****
Yesterday, I finally convinced myself to get a haircut. Hair was suddenly getting into my eyes, ears and gobbling up massive amounts of shampoo. Too bad really, I was getting used to having all that hair. Gave me something to mess up when I was bored and justified my use of a baseball cap for more casual occasions.
Back in high school, when glam rock was making way for grunge, having long hair was all the rage much to the chagrin of stuffy teachers and pesky parents. I once let my hair grow long enough to cover my face, though not yet long enough to tie it into a ponytail. That would've been so cool, I thought. But my mom had other ideas, and forced me to get a proper haircut by taking her scissors and chopping off a generous portion of my bangs. I looked in the mirror and there was nothing else to be done but go to the barber to try to remedy the situation.
Now in the adult world, no longer under the parental dictatorship that I've had to endure for years, I sometimes entertain the thought of growing my hair long once again. But I guess that won't happen yet, unless I find myself stranded on a deserted island for a year, perhaps. There's that awkward stage where your hair gets really scruffy looking but not long enough to tie up. It's irritating, and unless you wear a baseball cap all the time, just doesn't look good.
*****
At my boss' request, I broke into an office-mate's drawer this afternoon. Thanks to my amazing ability to open some of the toughest locks around the office (in the continuing quest for candies and foodstuff), I am the designated safe-breaker. This, however, was no ordinary lock that she had installed.
The locks on the drawers in the office are usually the inferior kind, easy prey for my small pocketknife. But because of a prior incident which in no way involved me nor my talents, she had the locks changed to a pricier and less vulnerable set. I spent around 20minutes trying to pick the lock but to no avail. This tact was going nowhere, I said to myself. But still undaunted, I tried another approach. The drawers were made of wood, and wood being easy to bend and manipulate, I made the gap between the lock bigger and soon the drawer slid open, revealing what my boss wanted to get.
Now another problem ensued, I couldn't put the drawer back into place. Somehow, the wood sprang back to its original dimensions, and despite my coaxing, the lock jutted and wouldn't fit. I pondered on getting a crowbar and using brute force, but my boss was against it, saying that more damage might be done to the wood. I left the drawer as it was, vulnerable to attacks from petty thieves and food-mongers. For sure, there would be no one else to blame but me, and my boss boarding a flight to Tokyo the next morning, there was to be no witness to the non-crime. crap.
Of Sam, Beers, Underarms and Tapsi
Went to the east side of town last Saturday and in the afternoon found myself in familiar company, holding an ice cold beer in one hand and a cigarette in another. Subas and Noel were there, along with Mr. Golti. We had just gotten ourselves seated when a screech and thud caught our attention. A traffic accident had just happened along C5 road, and being truly Filipino, made it our patriotic duty to investigate the situation. There was a big blue dump truck, a Honda, and further along the road a Toyota van on its side. Traffic crawled to a snail's pace, everyone wanted a peek at the incident.
As usual, everyone instantly became an analyst and commentator to the event. Men casually walked to and from the wreck, trying to look as casual and uninterested as possible and failing miserable on both counts. Then a familiar name resonated from the crowd, Sam Milby was in the van, allegedly.
It took a while before the man in the van finally crawled out of the vehicle, someone remarked that he looked unscathed despite what happened to his tin can on wheels. Yep, it was the actor himself. Hmm, maybe it was staged, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he had make-up on and someone would suddenly shout "Cut!" from out of nowhere. We were all humored, this was the man whose pansy smile beamed ten foot high on billboards and somehow made teenage girls giggle by simply talking nonsense in his much-maligned Filipino. A far cry from our mutual man-crush, Brad Pitt, no doubt.
We went back to our beers and made more wisecracks at Sam's expense. We had just come from Subas' house in Marikina which was engulfed in knee deep flood waters just the weekend prior. We initially came to help out in cleaning, but then ended up helping ourselves to cracked-pepper crusted liempo. Made a mental note to myself to try it out at home while I took the last bite-sized portion. (How un-Filipino, I know!)
Over the course of the evening at the bar, we were watching the VMA's on television, anticipating Kanye West's rude intrusion into Ms. Taylor Swift's acceptance speech. The incident occurred, and we all echoed Barack Obama's sentiments. What a jackass, indeed.
Now, the lovely Ms. Swift wasn't done for the evening yet, and somehow managed to muster enough courage to perform a single of her's. She was cute... and we all sat there staring at her smooth and silky underarm as she waved to everyone on the subway. Yum!
And speaking of underarms, I can't help but flashback on an incident at Handlebars... Noel and I were watching this little known band perform, we can't remember any of the songs on their set, but damn, the petite lady on vocals was just mesmerizing. And yes, her underarm was just so... damn! We cheered her on each time she hit a high note, her hand clenched into a fist in the air, revealing her snow white underarm for all of us to gaze into. Whew!
Yes, ladies, there is little a man can do to resist the allure of great underarms on a woman. I can't put a finger on why this is so, but trust me, all that shaving, moisturizing, waxing (and of course, deodorizing) is well worth it. If one were to place two equally stunning Brazilian models side by side, one wearing a short skirt and a t-shirt and the other unflattering pants but a tank top, waving her hands in the air revealing flawless underarms, my bet is that men would notice the underarms first.
Back to Saturday on the east side, we had the whole bar to ourselves. There was no one else around, people had sensibly taken shelter in their own homes amid the brewing storm approaching. But we, well, we thought we were invincible and continued our little drinking spree. Hmm, it wasn't exactly a drinking spree, I guess. We were pretty mindful not to get drunk. We weren't kids anymore, and I recall the most any of us drank was maybe 6 beers.
We called it a night and adjourned early that evening, we were tired and wanted a good night's rest. I decided to go south this time to bring Mr. Golti home to Paranaque. As fate would have it, we found ourselves in Dongalo, home of the infamous DB Tapsi. Noel and I were curious to finally have an authentic Dongalo tapsi, and we stopped at Marty's, supposedly the original and the best that the neighborhood had to offer. Yep, the reputation was well earned.
I'm curious though, how this stretch of road in particular could be the home of so many tapsilog joints. How the heck did they manage to make a profit when there was a tapsilog joint everywhere? Never mind... I would gladly come back to sample more of their tapa upon the slightest urging.
As usual, everyone instantly became an analyst and commentator to the event. Men casually walked to and from the wreck, trying to look as casual and uninterested as possible and failing miserable on both counts. Then a familiar name resonated from the crowd, Sam Milby was in the van, allegedly.
It took a while before the man in the van finally crawled out of the vehicle, someone remarked that he looked unscathed despite what happened to his tin can on wheels. Yep, it was the actor himself. Hmm, maybe it was staged, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he had make-up on and someone would suddenly shout "Cut!" from out of nowhere. We were all humored, this was the man whose pansy smile beamed ten foot high on billboards and somehow made teenage girls giggle by simply talking nonsense in his much-maligned Filipino. A far cry from our mutual man-crush, Brad Pitt, no doubt.
We went back to our beers and made more wisecracks at Sam's expense. We had just come from Subas' house in Marikina which was engulfed in knee deep flood waters just the weekend prior. We initially came to help out in cleaning, but then ended up helping ourselves to cracked-pepper crusted liempo. Made a mental note to myself to try it out at home while I took the last bite-sized portion. (How un-Filipino, I know!)
Over the course of the evening at the bar, we were watching the VMA's on television, anticipating Kanye West's rude intrusion into Ms. Taylor Swift's acceptance speech. The incident occurred, and we all echoed Barack Obama's sentiments. What a jackass, indeed.
Now, the lovely Ms. Swift wasn't done for the evening yet, and somehow managed to muster enough courage to perform a single of her's. She was cute... and we all sat there staring at her smooth and silky underarm as she waved to everyone on the subway. Yum!
And speaking of underarms, I can't help but flashback on an incident at Handlebars... Noel and I were watching this little known band perform, we can't remember any of the songs on their set, but damn, the petite lady on vocals was just mesmerizing. And yes, her underarm was just so... damn! We cheered her on each time she hit a high note, her hand clenched into a fist in the air, revealing her snow white underarm for all of us to gaze into. Whew!
Yes, ladies, there is little a man can do to resist the allure of great underarms on a woman. I can't put a finger on why this is so, but trust me, all that shaving, moisturizing, waxing (and of course, deodorizing) is well worth it. If one were to place two equally stunning Brazilian models side by side, one wearing a short skirt and a t-shirt and the other unflattering pants but a tank top, waving her hands in the air revealing flawless underarms, my bet is that men would notice the underarms first.
Back to Saturday on the east side, we had the whole bar to ourselves. There was no one else around, people had sensibly taken shelter in their own homes amid the brewing storm approaching. But we, well, we thought we were invincible and continued our little drinking spree. Hmm, it wasn't exactly a drinking spree, I guess. We were pretty mindful not to get drunk. We weren't kids anymore, and I recall the most any of us drank was maybe 6 beers.
We called it a night and adjourned early that evening, we were tired and wanted a good night's rest. I decided to go south this time to bring Mr. Golti home to Paranaque. As fate would have it, we found ourselves in Dongalo, home of the infamous DB Tapsi. Noel and I were curious to finally have an authentic Dongalo tapsi, and we stopped at Marty's, supposedly the original and the best that the neighborhood had to offer. Yep, the reputation was well earned.
I'm curious though, how this stretch of road in particular could be the home of so many tapsilog joints. How the heck did they manage to make a profit when there was a tapsilog joint everywhere? Never mind... I would gladly come back to sample more of their tapa upon the slightest urging.
Back to basics on my notebook
So I made it early here at Market Market!, I planned on getting some thinking done before my Korean client arrives for our meeting here at Starbucks. I came upon some extra time as my lunch meeting with another client got postponed to next week. I purposely left my afternoon meeting as is, seeing the opportunity to get some groceries for the weekend.
Turns out, all the supermarkets were packed full of people panic-buying for this weekend's highly anticipated storm. I've read conflicting reports about the storm online, one that it was headed straight for the Visayas, and another that it swerved northwards towards the isolated Batanes group of islands. Either way am pretty sure that it's going to be a wet weekend ahead.
Just in case you were wondering, I do not bring my laptop to these meetings. Hence if you're reading this, then you'd know that this was encoded online by myself after tediously writing it all down by hand on my notebook. Judging from my handwriting, the transfer of this post is quite an effort in itself. I've never been known for my penmanship, and though I do scribble notes and memos at work, I hardly get to read them again once I set them on my out-tray. No wonder my assistant isn't fond of my hand-written notes.
*****
To anyone who needs to write long letters by hand, then you must probably know what a joy it is writing with a signpen or fountain pen rather than the common ballpoint. For one, it's a relaxing experience, just having to let the tip glide on the paper's surface rather than applying pressure and keeping it fairly uniform throughout. It's got more character as well, the ink reflecting every quirky movement of your hand and letting it blot and thin out at all the appropriate strokes. I'm particularly fond of the squiggly tails that you get from the letters G, J, D and Y. Mine's a bit awkwardly curved, making it look discernably mine.
The use of a sign pen also makes me very thankful for going through all that hassle of learning cursive. I imagind that writing in print letters is more tiresome, the lifting and going down on paper. Cursive certainly is proving useful, moreso if you're stuck at a coffee shop without a laptop for company.
*****
I'm experiencing a backlog in my reading list. So far, I've 3 issues of Newsweek still unopened as well as 4 books unfinished. I always forget to bring them with me for times I don't feel like posting stuff on my blog. That's also part of the reason I've unplugged my television, which is starting to become yet another random useless act.
This morning, I sat on the crapper and continued with "The Lavas", a history of the Lava family by one of my favorite authors, Jose Dalisay, Jr. Curiously, I didn't realize that a friend of a friend is actually a Lava, and that her lolo and lolas are the subject of this book. So now, I'm quite curious about her lineage but am stopping short of getting in contact with her for verification of some items that I've read. We're not really close, after all, plus there's some history I think between her and our common friend, so that's that.
*****
There's this man seated beside me sucking on a big fat cigar. The smoke wafts in my direction, and it smells really... "relaxing". Unlike cigarette smoke which is irritating even to us chain-smokers, cigar smoke is a real treat. Think of a chocolate bar burning, that's probably the best description I can give for it. No it's not one of those pretentious flavored cigars that seem popular with the younger generation of cigar-chompers. The one he's smoking is the real deal, hard-core hand rolled/folded stuff. Despite not being a connoisseur of cigars, I can tell it's worth a lot judging from the smile on his face. When I do quit smoking these cheap cigarettes, I'll probably indulge my senses with an after dinner dose of Tabacalera on a daily basis.
*****
Hmm, seem to be running out of space on my notebook. Another reason why I should write on paper with pen more, it'll train me to write not less, but more concisely. Unless of course, I get myself a bigger notebook. Oh well...
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Bus ride to wherever
I've been avoiding the television lately. I find it too hypnotic that I can't get anything done anymore. The whole house is a mess, I've been neglecting laundry duty and my refrigerator is about to freeze over into the next ice age. Unfortunately, this strategy of mine doesn't seem to be as effective as I've hoped. I come home late at night from my gas station hang-out and am greeted by a mountain of chores. What do I do? Nothing. I just stare back at the filth and mumble a promise to get it done this weekend.
Ah, but this weekend I'm off to a wedding. So on Sunday, perhaps? Most likely I'm to be too lazy to do it. Oh well, better take things one day at a time...
*****
I'm currently thinking of Sagada. I guess I'm stressed out. Sagada is my "safe" place... it's where I feel like going to when I want to forget or be away. I don't have to do anything, just sit back, relax, have a cigarette and a steaming hot cup of coffee. However, getting there is quite stressful in itself. So my mind then settles for Baguio. The next best thing, I guess.
Hmm, how about a new adventure? Somewhere I've never been to? Or somewhere that I haven't considered before? Some people I know check in to a hotel when they want to get away from it all. I would like to do the same sometimes, but the steep cost of booking a suite or a room just isn't helping me out. So yeah, hotels are very unlikely in my book.
When I was living in Pangasinan for my OJT, I used to ride the bus to Baguio or Manila just to be somewhere else. I specially enjoyed the non-airconditioned buses as they had more "character" and stopped more often. This means I get to spend more time on the road, which is okay with me as I really had nothing much to do when I got to where I was going, anyway. Also, I could smoke inside the bus, something which the new laws of smoking in public areas now forbid. I took the last row of seats, the ones that no one wanted to sit in, and then look out the window the whole time. I'd watch the fields, trees, carabaos, stores, houses, practically anything in my line of sight. Night journeys are the best, it isn't hot inside the bus and the glow of streetlamps or the moonlight gave a lot of surrealism to the whole experience.
Once while walking on the roadside in Urdaneta City after helping myself to an extravagance known as the Jollibee palabok fiesta, a bus stopped and the conductor called out that it was going to Pasay. I was walking toward the line of tricycles heading to the interior, but in a millisecond found myself hopping onboard the bus. I remember having to call ahead to a friend of mine, I needed to borrow some money as I realized that I had only P200 on me and the fare, including the return trip costs P202. I had to walk for an hour before I got to his house and claimed the loan, then spent half of it on beer.
Hopefully, a magical bus won't be stopping at my feet this time, lest I shrug my shoulders and hop on to a trip to anywhere. Not that I don't want to, but I might forget that it's a Thursday and that I've to be somewhere more definite tomorrow.
Ah, but this weekend I'm off to a wedding. So on Sunday, perhaps? Most likely I'm to be too lazy to do it. Oh well, better take things one day at a time...
*****
I'm currently thinking of Sagada. I guess I'm stressed out. Sagada is my "safe" place... it's where I feel like going to when I want to forget or be away. I don't have to do anything, just sit back, relax, have a cigarette and a steaming hot cup of coffee. However, getting there is quite stressful in itself. So my mind then settles for Baguio. The next best thing, I guess.
Hmm, how about a new adventure? Somewhere I've never been to? Or somewhere that I haven't considered before? Some people I know check in to a hotel when they want to get away from it all. I would like to do the same sometimes, but the steep cost of booking a suite or a room just isn't helping me out. So yeah, hotels are very unlikely in my book.
When I was living in Pangasinan for my OJT, I used to ride the bus to Baguio or Manila just to be somewhere else. I specially enjoyed the non-airconditioned buses as they had more "character" and stopped more often. This means I get to spend more time on the road, which is okay with me as I really had nothing much to do when I got to where I was going, anyway. Also, I could smoke inside the bus, something which the new laws of smoking in public areas now forbid. I took the last row of seats, the ones that no one wanted to sit in, and then look out the window the whole time. I'd watch the fields, trees, carabaos, stores, houses, practically anything in my line of sight. Night journeys are the best, it isn't hot inside the bus and the glow of streetlamps or the moonlight gave a lot of surrealism to the whole experience.
Once while walking on the roadside in Urdaneta City after helping myself to an extravagance known as the Jollibee palabok fiesta, a bus stopped and the conductor called out that it was going to Pasay. I was walking toward the line of tricycles heading to the interior, but in a millisecond found myself hopping onboard the bus. I remember having to call ahead to a friend of mine, I needed to borrow some money as I realized that I had only P200 on me and the fare, including the return trip costs P202. I had to walk for an hour before I got to his house and claimed the loan, then spent half of it on beer.
Hopefully, a magical bus won't be stopping at my feet this time, lest I shrug my shoulders and hop on to a trip to anywhere. Not that I don't want to, but I might forget that it's a Thursday and that I've to be somewhere more definite tomorrow.
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