Saturday night, Archie and I hit Metrowalk for a nightcap around midnight, a bit tired already from a quiet drinking session out of town, but still game enough to meet some friends. It suddenly occurred to us, that thing we've been missing the most part of our lives, partying the night away with REALLY HOT CHICKS. Pardon the all-caps and the chauvinism, but that's the only way I can do justice to the state of shock we both found ourselves stupefied in. Right from the parking lot till we decided to call it quits, they were everywhere... young, lithe creatures, made-up and dressed down. I could barely keep my cigarette between my lips as my jaw kept dropping down to the floor, along with my boxers.
I wondered if somewhere we hit a tree and died, and went to heaven? I'm sure Archie will agree: There are no atheists in a war, as well as when surrounded by such wonderful urban nymphs, you'd be praying to all the gods for such a night to never end.
Sometimes, ONLY at some times (ahem), I wonder why I don't get to hang out with more of these creatures. The possibility that they may be shallow, materialistic, dumb even, are there, granted, but they sure are gosh darn nice to look at. Better yet, you can dumb yourself down with beer and yak out gibberish and reduce yourself to a friggin' moron, but sure enough they won't mind, and Einstein, Leonardo and Newton sitting on their own there on the other table will be drooling with envy that you're with these creatures and they're not. There's a time for everything, for brilliant conversations, faith, epiphanies and recollection, I'll be damned if there's not a minute for the shallow, sensuous and indulgent!
We drank our beers, wishing we were at the next table, or the next, or any of the other tables for that matter, sipping scotch instead and getting our game on with "them". "They" knew we were looking, and let us, evil and manipulating, amused and taking pleasure from our frustration. What would James Bond have done? Or Vinnie Chase? Not sit here alone with this guy, for sure. Ahh, but they're fictional heroes, and us, real losers, so stick together we did. Crap. Suddenly, I realized that we might have hit a tree somewhere, died and went to this hell. There are no atheists in a war, nor in hell.
*****
Vinnie Chase and James Bond sat at the same table, surrounded by urban nymphs, scantily dressed, made up and wearing contact lenses of every color imaginable, with margaritas in hand ready to kill of what few brain cells they had left. Both men were laughing, more out of pity than amusement at what these creatures had to say. This happens on a daily basis, a curse of some sort, perhaps. Suddenly, like little lemmings, all the girls stood up to go to the washroom, Vinnie and James were alone at last for a more intelligible conversation. They eye the two men sitting on the table opposite them, having beers over conversations about life, hopes and dreams.
"Look at those two, Vin. Buddies, enjoying the special bond between men, brothers in arms." said James, as the waiter hands him his martini, shaken, not stirred.
"I know, been there for hours. Bros before hos, eh?" as Vinnie tweets his 5 minute update for his fans.
"This life of ours, shallow and full of earthly pleasures. Devoid of passion and character."
"I know what you mean, bro." answers Vinnie, ready for another tweet while pouring yet another shot of tequila.
"Don't you sometimes wish there was something more to our lives than beautiful women, money and fast cars?" They both take a look at the two other men, considering what bond they have, what they've been through. How they are closer to finding the meaning to their lives.
The girls were walking en masse back to the table now. As they took their places, surrounding the two men, Vinnie raises his shotglass against James' martini, "Sure glad we ain't those two losers!" as both men laughed their toasts, after which they took a couple of girls into each arm and relished their godhood.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Bird-brained part two
A couple of days ago, a loud, horrid squawk tore at my eardrums from outside my office window. Accustomed to the high pitched chirping of the common brown sparrows that frequently buzz around anywhere I go, I took a peek out of the venetian blinds to inspect what god-awful monster must be dying just outside. I was expecting a big black crow haunting my office, but then the sight of this deep-blue bird with intense yellow streaks came as a surprise. It was maybe a foot and a half long from beak to tailfeathers, and was surely the most colorful flier I've seen so far this close. It squawked a couple more times before taking to the air.
Of course, I googled up my description of what I saw, but came up empty. I never could count upon my googling skills for anything, especially not to find information regarding some strange and uncommon an occurrence such as this. So sorry to disappoint you, but no, I have no clue what kind of bird that was.
Anyway, upon seeing that bird fly away, I thought it best to declare a cigarette break. I needed to think recent events through. First, there was the dead bird stupid enough to dart straight for the clear glass window a couple of weeks ago, now this? Entire cultures once based their everyday decisions on our flying friends, sightings and visions of strange birds were regarded as potent signs and omens, who am I to disregard them now?
Trouble is, I've the faintest idea of what this all means. Been having enough trouble focusing at work, unearthing the mystery of these avian sightings is way beyond me even at my bored-most. Maybe it's a calling, that I should be a bird-watcher, or that it's high time that I spread my wings and fly? Or it could be a reminder of just how small my brain is, perhaps an indication that my current staple of fried chicken, chicken franks and hard boiled eggs has gone overboard.
*****
That day at lunchtime, after my delicious meal of spicy chicken wings, I got around to asking my officemates it they saw any peculiar birds lately. No one saw anything of interest, so I had a go at filling them in on my new discovery. Of the four present, three of them agreed that I should've caught and took the bird home as a pet-slash-prize. The other one wondered how it tasted over beer. Clearly the office is going to the birds...
*****
A month ago, I was reading the papers when I chanced upon an article about the death of another Philippine Eagle, the fourth casualty of those hatched in captivity, if I remember right. I couldn't recall if this one bled to death from a bullet wound, what I did remember from the article was that the third casualty was captured and eaten by a couple of villagers not too far from the eagle's sanctuary. Eagle-eye soup must really be that good.
*****
Not a lot of people know that the whole of the prestigious Ayala-Alabang subdivision is a bird sanctuary. They've signs posted and all, a testament to the respect and love the residents have for our feathered friends. They've got gigantic television screens flashing this accord right outside the village gates, fair warning to the outsiders to check their BB guns with the guard, as well as tell the birds that they're welcome to shit-spray their shiny cars and meticulously hand-woven country club shirts. Curiously, while glancing upon the giant television screen proclaiming this fact, a scooter-driving delivery boy whizzed past me and proceeded into the village, the box on the rear of the two-wheeler declared the letters "KFC" in bright crimson.
I knew I shouldn't have laughed, but that sight just cracked me up.
Of course, I googled up my description of what I saw, but came up empty. I never could count upon my googling skills for anything, especially not to find information regarding some strange and uncommon an occurrence such as this. So sorry to disappoint you, but no, I have no clue what kind of bird that was.
Anyway, upon seeing that bird fly away, I thought it best to declare a cigarette break. I needed to think recent events through. First, there was the dead bird stupid enough to dart straight for the clear glass window a couple of weeks ago, now this? Entire cultures once based their everyday decisions on our flying friends, sightings and visions of strange birds were regarded as potent signs and omens, who am I to disregard them now?
Trouble is, I've the faintest idea of what this all means. Been having enough trouble focusing at work, unearthing the mystery of these avian sightings is way beyond me even at my bored-most. Maybe it's a calling, that I should be a bird-watcher, or that it's high time that I spread my wings and fly? Or it could be a reminder of just how small my brain is, perhaps an indication that my current staple of fried chicken, chicken franks and hard boiled eggs has gone overboard.
*****
That day at lunchtime, after my delicious meal of spicy chicken wings, I got around to asking my officemates it they saw any peculiar birds lately. No one saw anything of interest, so I had a go at filling them in on my new discovery. Of the four present, three of them agreed that I should've caught and took the bird home as a pet-slash-prize. The other one wondered how it tasted over beer. Clearly the office is going to the birds...
*****
A month ago, I was reading the papers when I chanced upon an article about the death of another Philippine Eagle, the fourth casualty of those hatched in captivity, if I remember right. I couldn't recall if this one bled to death from a bullet wound, what I did remember from the article was that the third casualty was captured and eaten by a couple of villagers not too far from the eagle's sanctuary. Eagle-eye soup must really be that good.
*****
Not a lot of people know that the whole of the prestigious Ayala-Alabang subdivision is a bird sanctuary. They've signs posted and all, a testament to the respect and love the residents have for our feathered friends. They've got gigantic television screens flashing this accord right outside the village gates, fair warning to the outsiders to check their BB guns with the guard, as well as tell the birds that they're welcome to shit-spray their shiny cars and meticulously hand-woven country club shirts. Curiously, while glancing upon the giant television screen proclaiming this fact, a scooter-driving delivery boy whizzed past me and proceeded into the village, the box on the rear of the two-wheeler declared the letters "KFC" in bright crimson.
I knew I shouldn't have laughed, but that sight just cracked me up.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Limping in at life
A few nights ago, I had a conversation about days of yore when I was supposedly poor. This was a time when I had to live on P500 bucks a week while exiled in the far-flung rice paddies of the northern provinces. A trip to town to withdraw my allowance already cost 10% of the full amount, breakfast consisted of "cornick" (deep fried corn kernels) and cold, hard leftover rice, relying on the kindness of strangers for meals and lodgings was an imperative for survival because 500 bucks wouldn't last two days given the work that I had to do back then.
Well, I got to thinking about it again, but this time I realize, I was better off back then financially than I am now. The present is the height of poverty... because back then, I didn't have this ginormous loan that I'm still paying off and netting me a sorry negative on the balance sheet. Sure I'm raking in a lot more than the meager 500 bucks, but I'm spending more than I make. Maybe I should go back to that life, surviving by eating crumbs and relying on the folks for lodgings; counting every penny that I have in my pocket, and deny myself the creature comforts and extravagances I'm so used to nowadays, such as scotch, cigarettes, pizza, internet, and cups of espresso. Yep, I probably should, but I don't think I will. Not yet, anyway.
*****
There's this ironic saying in Formula One, that the best way to win the race is to cross the line first in the slowest pace possible. It makes sense from a technological and human standpoint, conserving precious fuel, minimizing engine and tire wear and maintaining sane amounts of G-forces that the driver is subjected to during braking and cornering. This ensures both man and machine are still competitive for the next race, because there are 19 battles one has to go through en route to winning the season.
The same holds true for life, I say. I'd rather take it all at a leisurely pace than pressure myself to do all the things I ought to do all at once. I guess this demeanor can be blamed on a happy-go-lucky attitude and a non-existent sense of urgency, but I daresay, so far so good. Sure I've got money problems, living a life I can't afford, but I'm still living, aren't I? My career is fast approaching that proverbial glass ceiling, but I ain't there yet. I'm in my thirties and still single, fine, I could always get a dog. And if all that fails, well, I've still got my health. If happiness and contentment were the sole yardstick for which one's life achievement is to be measured, I guess I've got a head start, thanks to the ridiculously low standards I've set for myself.
On the other hand, in the very likely event that life's yardstick happens to be an unwavering passion for personal achievement and a real contribution to the betterment of mankind, I'll leave it to my next life to do compensate for the wasted opportunity that is this one.
Well, I got to thinking about it again, but this time I realize, I was better off back then financially than I am now. The present is the height of poverty... because back then, I didn't have this ginormous loan that I'm still paying off and netting me a sorry negative on the balance sheet. Sure I'm raking in a lot more than the meager 500 bucks, but I'm spending more than I make. Maybe I should go back to that life, surviving by eating crumbs and relying on the folks for lodgings; counting every penny that I have in my pocket, and deny myself the creature comforts and extravagances I'm so used to nowadays, such as scotch, cigarettes, pizza, internet, and cups of espresso. Yep, I probably should, but I don't think I will. Not yet, anyway.
*****
There's this ironic saying in Formula One, that the best way to win the race is to cross the line first in the slowest pace possible. It makes sense from a technological and human standpoint, conserving precious fuel, minimizing engine and tire wear and maintaining sane amounts of G-forces that the driver is subjected to during braking and cornering. This ensures both man and machine are still competitive for the next race, because there are 19 battles one has to go through en route to winning the season.
The same holds true for life, I say. I'd rather take it all at a leisurely pace than pressure myself to do all the things I ought to do all at once. I guess this demeanor can be blamed on a happy-go-lucky attitude and a non-existent sense of urgency, but I daresay, so far so good. Sure I've got money problems, living a life I can't afford, but I'm still living, aren't I? My career is fast approaching that proverbial glass ceiling, but I ain't there yet. I'm in my thirties and still single, fine, I could always get a dog. And if all that fails, well, I've still got my health. If happiness and contentment were the sole yardstick for which one's life achievement is to be measured, I guess I've got a head start, thanks to the ridiculously low standards I've set for myself.
On the other hand, in the very likely event that life's yardstick happens to be an unwavering passion for personal achievement and a real contribution to the betterment of mankind, I'll leave it to my next life to do compensate for the wasted opportunity that is this one.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
This is getting too old
It's another one of those insignificant evenings, the best opportunity to stretch my fingers and type away a post. My mind is drawing blank, the perfect canvass, as I examine my brandy, sacrilegiously iced in a whiskey glass in part due to the humidity. I initially wanted whiskey, but I ran out so I had to settle for Jerez, must remember to get a fresh bottle of scotch later in the evening.
As expected, nothing's changed. The birthday weekend came and went by without any epiphanies nor great sense of maturity. Not even the brandy tastes differently, the Marlboros still stink, and coffee remains bitterly earthy. I guess only an idiot would take meaning from gaining another year.
But the weekend sure was fun all throughout, the only real disappointment coming from the lack of a bag of chocolates which I specifically asked from an ex-girlfriend of mine. I daresay this extended weekend was the most gratifying that I've had in a long while now.
*****
No thanks to Ernest Hemingway, I woke up from a thrilling bullfight dream sequence. There I was, watching how the bull gorged a dozen or so clowns who were running around. Weird thing that there was no bullfighter, I thought. There were just these clowns wearing red, all of them oddly looking like Ronald McDonald. I opened my eyes, waking up to this longing for a double cheeseburger.
*****
I'm being pressured by everyone to get a passport. Me, I can't fathom why the urgency. So far, I haven't any opportunity (nor desire) to go out of the country yet. And besides, having been rejected the first time, forgive me for being a bit bitter about getting one.
For some reason, I find no motivation to hop a plane bound beyond the confines of the P.I.'s area of responsibility. While everyone else seems giddy about the prospect of jetting around the region or to some other continent, I find it a real chore. Having to get a passport, lining up at the airport for them to verify documents and such, it's one of the things that I don't like bothering with. Checking in baggage is all the hassle that I'm willing to take boarding an aircraft. Getting in line for an entirely different purpose seems too much time wasted.
But then again, a friend of mine is going to Hong Kong to study and has extended an advance invitation for the gang to spend the holidays there. I'm seriously thinking of going if finances allow me to do so, so I may finally be lining up at Foreign Affairs one of these days. The more I think about it, though, the more I find myself dragging my feet. What's wrong with me?
*****
My drink is gone, I've puffed the last out of my cigarette and the urge to go to bed is increasing. I scroll up and see I've dished out another post that is probably not worth publishing. If you made it this far, you should seriously consider getting a life. I know I am.
As expected, nothing's changed. The birthday weekend came and went by without any epiphanies nor great sense of maturity. Not even the brandy tastes differently, the Marlboros still stink, and coffee remains bitterly earthy. I guess only an idiot would take meaning from gaining another year.
But the weekend sure was fun all throughout, the only real disappointment coming from the lack of a bag of chocolates which I specifically asked from an ex-girlfriend of mine. I daresay this extended weekend was the most gratifying that I've had in a long while now.
*****
No thanks to Ernest Hemingway, I woke up from a thrilling bullfight dream sequence. There I was, watching how the bull gorged a dozen or so clowns who were running around. Weird thing that there was no bullfighter, I thought. There were just these clowns wearing red, all of them oddly looking like Ronald McDonald. I opened my eyes, waking up to this longing for a double cheeseburger.
*****
I'm being pressured by everyone to get a passport. Me, I can't fathom why the urgency. So far, I haven't any opportunity (nor desire) to go out of the country yet. And besides, having been rejected the first time, forgive me for being a bit bitter about getting one.
For some reason, I find no motivation to hop a plane bound beyond the confines of the P.I.'s area of responsibility. While everyone else seems giddy about the prospect of jetting around the region or to some other continent, I find it a real chore. Having to get a passport, lining up at the airport for them to verify documents and such, it's one of the things that I don't like bothering with. Checking in baggage is all the hassle that I'm willing to take boarding an aircraft. Getting in line for an entirely different purpose seems too much time wasted.
But then again, a friend of mine is going to Hong Kong to study and has extended an advance invitation for the gang to spend the holidays there. I'm seriously thinking of going if finances allow me to do so, so I may finally be lining up at Foreign Affairs one of these days. The more I think about it, though, the more I find myself dragging my feet. What's wrong with me?
*****
My drink is gone, I've puffed the last out of my cigarette and the urge to go to bed is increasing. I scroll up and see I've dished out another post that is probably not worth publishing. If you made it this far, you should seriously consider getting a life. I know I am.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Two funerals and the bug's revenge
The carnage of a day, when death lingers in the air and you realize just how short life is. Today I witnessed 2 deaths, which is one more death than I can usually handle.
Okay, first death... it was all my fault, actually. The household was terrorized by another tiny rodent. I let it go for a while, maybe a couple of weeks or so, until the critter yanked on the proverbial last straw and dared to gnaw on the cable. So I set off on a mouse-hunt, took out my trusty old mouse-trap and baited it with a left over fish head. I must say, for a creature with a brain the size of a corn kernel (or smaller even), this guy was smart. It had eluded capture for two days, a record in my book, and had even been able to unhook the bait a couple of times. It was frustrating, to say the least, waking up early in the morning, all set to cook a breakfast of deep fried food, when in a flash the rodent would jump off the kitchen counter like a spring and listen to me while in mid-flight, shrieking like a little girl and running off in my boxers.
Anything that could scare the heck out of me that way deserves to be terminated, if only to nurse a man's pride back to non-pathetic levels.
I do some psychological theorizing, if this rodent keeps up getting free meals out of the trap, then it's bound to get overconfident and be reckless. That single mistake would be all the chance I need for victory to be mine! Eventually, the law of averages was bound to catch up to him.
So I bait the trap again, chanting curses and making offerings to the god of hunters, and wondering how much it would cost to have this particular rodent gutted, stuffed and mounted on a shelf.
Of course, after an hour, the bait was gone again. Why have the gods forsaken me?
This morning, I was overcome with joy at what I saw struggling and writhing in the mousetrap! The furry little beast of torment was caged at last! I lift up the cage up to my face and heckle away, unmindful of the horror that must be running in its tiny little brain. I set it back down and began thinking of what to do next, while it looked up at me with black, beady eyes and paws clasped in front of it. So I "mercifully" passed judgment, down the drain it went, via the toilet's raging counter-clockwise current.
The second death, I found a little birdie lying on its back on the 3rd floor of our offices, right smack in the middle of my favorite smoking spot. It wasn't the usual "maya" that we see in the city, the office is in a province after all, situated in the middle of two lakes and hectares of former rice paddies and grasslands. It was one of those grass-birds (sorry, that's the best description I could think of), long legs, tails and beaks.
I used my foot to nudge it here and there, trying to figure out if it was indeed dead or just getting some shuteye. When I was certain that it was lifeless, I tried to investigate the cause of death. There were no bullet marks, no gashes nor bite marks. For all I knew, it might have just been old age or a massive coronary mid-flap. Then I noticed a rather distinct, dusty "splat-mark" on the clear glass window. Ooooh... bird with a not-so-sharp eyesight, it seems. Such a waste.
Googling "taxidermy", I didn't think I had the particular skills, fortitude, nor preservatives to take up a new hobby. So, to keep the whole cycle of life ticking, I pick up the carcass and place it on the base of the nearest potted plant I could find. Here, I thought, it would rot into a noble cause, fertilizing the thorny rose bush my boss planted.
I was watching the dead bird, lying still and starting the long, drawn-out process of decomposition when this bug all of a sudden landed on it. It was a ladybug, all red with black spots (well, it actually looked more like squares up close), buzzing to a soft landing on the bird's wing. I wanted to take a photo, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera-phone on me. It was cute, though, up until when the bug crawled its way to the bird's head and made a meal out of the eyeball. Eww...
Now that is what I call IRONY.
Okay, first death... it was all my fault, actually. The household was terrorized by another tiny rodent. I let it go for a while, maybe a couple of weeks or so, until the critter yanked on the proverbial last straw and dared to gnaw on the cable. So I set off on a mouse-hunt, took out my trusty old mouse-trap and baited it with a left over fish head. I must say, for a creature with a brain the size of a corn kernel (or smaller even), this guy was smart. It had eluded capture for two days, a record in my book, and had even been able to unhook the bait a couple of times. It was frustrating, to say the least, waking up early in the morning, all set to cook a breakfast of deep fried food, when in a flash the rodent would jump off the kitchen counter like a spring and listen to me while in mid-flight, shrieking like a little girl and running off in my boxers.
Anything that could scare the heck out of me that way deserves to be terminated, if only to nurse a man's pride back to non-pathetic levels.
I do some psychological theorizing, if this rodent keeps up getting free meals out of the trap, then it's bound to get overconfident and be reckless. That single mistake would be all the chance I need for victory to be mine! Eventually, the law of averages was bound to catch up to him.
So I bait the trap again, chanting curses and making offerings to the god of hunters, and wondering how much it would cost to have this particular rodent gutted, stuffed and mounted on a shelf.
Of course, after an hour, the bait was gone again. Why have the gods forsaken me?
This morning, I was overcome with joy at what I saw struggling and writhing in the mousetrap! The furry little beast of torment was caged at last! I lift up the cage up to my face and heckle away, unmindful of the horror that must be running in its tiny little brain. I set it back down and began thinking of what to do next, while it looked up at me with black, beady eyes and paws clasped in front of it. So I "mercifully" passed judgment, down the drain it went, via the toilet's raging counter-clockwise current.
The second death, I found a little birdie lying on its back on the 3rd floor of our offices, right smack in the middle of my favorite smoking spot. It wasn't the usual "maya" that we see in the city, the office is in a province after all, situated in the middle of two lakes and hectares of former rice paddies and grasslands. It was one of those grass-birds (sorry, that's the best description I could think of), long legs, tails and beaks.
I used my foot to nudge it here and there, trying to figure out if it was indeed dead or just getting some shuteye. When I was certain that it was lifeless, I tried to investigate the cause of death. There were no bullet marks, no gashes nor bite marks. For all I knew, it might have just been old age or a massive coronary mid-flap. Then I noticed a rather distinct, dusty "splat-mark" on the clear glass window. Ooooh... bird with a not-so-sharp eyesight, it seems. Such a waste.
Googling "taxidermy", I didn't think I had the particular skills, fortitude, nor preservatives to take up a new hobby. So, to keep the whole cycle of life ticking, I pick up the carcass and place it on the base of the nearest potted plant I could find. Here, I thought, it would rot into a noble cause, fertilizing the thorny rose bush my boss planted.
I was watching the dead bird, lying still and starting the long, drawn-out process of decomposition when this bug all of a sudden landed on it. It was a ladybug, all red with black spots (well, it actually looked more like squares up close), buzzing to a soft landing on the bird's wing. I wanted to take a photo, but unfortunately I didn't have my camera-phone on me. It was cute, though, up until when the bug crawled its way to the bird's head and made a meal out of the eyeball. Eww...
Now that is what I call IRONY.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Hair talk
I'm forgetting to get that long overdue haircut again. It's still early, the barbershop's still open. I bet my barber is just sitting there, watching television with his feet up, regarding the current movie showing on HBO. It might be a comedy, or an action flick for all I know. That could only mean that he's not thinking about me as much as I am thinking about him at this very moment. And all this time, I thought we had a real relationship. Isn't that tragic?
Regardless of my non-significance to that drone of a barber that I have, I've never really been fond of getting my hair cut. To me, it's such a chore that I would only too gladly pass up for the chance to watch a re-run of "The Wonder Years" on television. Is it because I'm just not vain about the appearance of my head of hair? Or perhaps a past trauma involving scissors and razors? To the best of my knowledge, it's just plain laziness on my part.
*****
I guess I should be thankful that at my age, I've still a full head of hair to be able to cut and style in the first place. Not caring about proper grooming might be construed by the hair-gods as a sign that I'm taking it for granted and thus, I don't deserve it. They might just as easily replace it with a thinning, graying mess of rice-noodles, would this make me care more about the top of my head? Most probably yes.
To make up for my laziness to visit the barber, I buy my own fair share of hair products. Shampoos, conditioners, hair wax and a soft comb. In rare instances, I even treat it with a dose of Vaseline hair tonic or baby oil. It keeps it healthy, but it sure as hell doesn't make it shorter and neater.
*****
I remember a time when haircuts were required. In grade school, teachers went ballistic whenever hair either went beyond the shirt collar, ears or eyebrows. CAT and ROTC were a joy as well, requiring a specific uniform cut of hair to demonstrate unity within the troops. Then there's mommy, who would resort to all measures to get me to go to the barber, even cutting off a significant portion of hair to compel me to have the barber go fix it to more presentable proportions. The neat, newly-cut look didn't bother me at all, just having to get it.
Thankfully, none of this grooming crap is an issue at the office. I could come in wearing a baseball cap or a mohawk and the big boss wouldn't even take a second look. He himself has been subject of chuckles at the water dispenser, with a slowly growing bald spot being hidden by combing up his sideburns. But as of late, everyone's been noticing his new mullet, wondering if this is a fashion statement or if he's growing it long enough to comb up and hide more of his balding pate. Doesn't bother me at all, each man has the right to how he wants his hair (or lack thereof) to look, even if he does look really ridiculous with it.
*****
One thing fascinating about hair, is that it's always growing, irritatingly continuously growing. You act to change it, by cutting it to lengths we've grown accustomed to or comfortable with. If left on its own, hibernating just as Rip Van Winkle did, you'd wake up to an unrecognizable sight. Even dead people are known to keep their hair growing, I think. I'm sure I've read this somewhere.
So by making excuses not to get a haircut as often as I should, am I letting things go through their natural course? Is this some subconscious way of expressing my willingness to let things develop as they would without intervention?
Nah... I'm just that lazy.
Regardless of my non-significance to that drone of a barber that I have, I've never really been fond of getting my hair cut. To me, it's such a chore that I would only too gladly pass up for the chance to watch a re-run of "The Wonder Years" on television. Is it because I'm just not vain about the appearance of my head of hair? Or perhaps a past trauma involving scissors and razors? To the best of my knowledge, it's just plain laziness on my part.
*****
I guess I should be thankful that at my age, I've still a full head of hair to be able to cut and style in the first place. Not caring about proper grooming might be construed by the hair-gods as a sign that I'm taking it for granted and thus, I don't deserve it. They might just as easily replace it with a thinning, graying mess of rice-noodles, would this make me care more about the top of my head? Most probably yes.
To make up for my laziness to visit the barber, I buy my own fair share of hair products. Shampoos, conditioners, hair wax and a soft comb. In rare instances, I even treat it with a dose of Vaseline hair tonic or baby oil. It keeps it healthy, but it sure as hell doesn't make it shorter and neater.
*****
I remember a time when haircuts were required. In grade school, teachers went ballistic whenever hair either went beyond the shirt collar, ears or eyebrows. CAT and ROTC were a joy as well, requiring a specific uniform cut of hair to demonstrate unity within the troops. Then there's mommy, who would resort to all measures to get me to go to the barber, even cutting off a significant portion of hair to compel me to have the barber go fix it to more presentable proportions. The neat, newly-cut look didn't bother me at all, just having to get it.
Thankfully, none of this grooming crap is an issue at the office. I could come in wearing a baseball cap or a mohawk and the big boss wouldn't even take a second look. He himself has been subject of chuckles at the water dispenser, with a slowly growing bald spot being hidden by combing up his sideburns. But as of late, everyone's been noticing his new mullet, wondering if this is a fashion statement or if he's growing it long enough to comb up and hide more of his balding pate. Doesn't bother me at all, each man has the right to how he wants his hair (or lack thereof) to look, even if he does look really ridiculous with it.
*****
One thing fascinating about hair, is that it's always growing, irritatingly continuously growing. You act to change it, by cutting it to lengths we've grown accustomed to or comfortable with. If left on its own, hibernating just as Rip Van Winkle did, you'd wake up to an unrecognizable sight. Even dead people are known to keep their hair growing, I think. I'm sure I've read this somewhere.
So by making excuses not to get a haircut as often as I should, am I letting things go through their natural course? Is this some subconscious way of expressing my willingness to let things develop as they would without intervention?
Nah... I'm just that lazy.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Home Improvement Day
Rearranged stuff in the house the whole day. Just felt like I needed a change, something new to come home to. The monotony of my current state of existence has been stressing me out of late, and this is the cheapest and easiest way I could think of to remedy the situation.
It's a really energizing and liberating experience, mind you. Sorting out stuff according to their personal value, and putting them in their proper places. Of course, those that don't really matter or have outlived their use gets thrown away, so you're left with only those that you still feel a connection to or use for. After the whole exercise, you look back and rekindle cherished memories and make room for new ones.
*****
I was going for a minimalist arrangement, but according to the resident minimalism expert, the little sister, the end result wasn't minimalist at all. And I thought "bare" was minimal.
I am content with the result, however. The living room has been reduced to a pretty huge and almost empty space. I hadn't imagined that a 3x3 was actually this big. I was also able to divide my room into two sections, the sleeping area and the walk-in-closet-slash-reading-nook. It kinda got a little claustrophobic, but for such a small space I was able to make room for a lot of my stuff. I've also been able to finally install the cable inside the little sister's room, earning a decent kickback in the process, enough to buy a small shelf for the restroom where I can put magazines and the ashtray.
Now that I've got all this space, my mind automatically shifts to procurement mode, instinctively trying to fill in every nook and cranny with aspirational items that should fill in the void left by the clutter. This is a bad thing, I suppose. I hide away my extra cash just in case I run into the Home Depot or Anson's anytime in the near future.
*****
The desktop has been a nightmare. The clunky, space-consuming CRT monitor is an eyesore that distracts one's attention to it. I suggested buying an LCD monitor to little sister, she's all for it but not too keen on the idea on shelling out for it. The really absurd thing is, we don't even use the desktop except to download stuff off the internet. We both have laptops, and the wireless connection is pretty cool, only the fear of contracting trojan horses and other malware has kept us from using the laptops for downloads, hence the reactivation of the old obsolete desktop.
Was really tempted to take it down and consign it to the folk's house for "safekeeping", but thought against it, untill we get another computer, that is.
*****
Well, I've 4 shots of scotch in me already, and the words on the screen are blurring out. Guess I better get ready to use the "sleeping quarter" for the first time, I'll let you know how it goes in future posts, I suppose.
It's a really energizing and liberating experience, mind you. Sorting out stuff according to their personal value, and putting them in their proper places. Of course, those that don't really matter or have outlived their use gets thrown away, so you're left with only those that you still feel a connection to or use for. After the whole exercise, you look back and rekindle cherished memories and make room for new ones.
*****
I was going for a minimalist arrangement, but according to the resident minimalism expert, the little sister, the end result wasn't minimalist at all. And I thought "bare" was minimal.
I am content with the result, however. The living room has been reduced to a pretty huge and almost empty space. I hadn't imagined that a 3x3 was actually this big. I was also able to divide my room into two sections, the sleeping area and the walk-in-closet-slash-reading-nook. It kinda got a little claustrophobic, but for such a small space I was able to make room for a lot of my stuff. I've also been able to finally install the cable inside the little sister's room, earning a decent kickback in the process, enough to buy a small shelf for the restroom where I can put magazines and the ashtray.
Now that I've got all this space, my mind automatically shifts to procurement mode, instinctively trying to fill in every nook and cranny with aspirational items that should fill in the void left by the clutter. This is a bad thing, I suppose. I hide away my extra cash just in case I run into the Home Depot or Anson's anytime in the near future.
*****
The desktop has been a nightmare. The clunky, space-consuming CRT monitor is an eyesore that distracts one's attention to it. I suggested buying an LCD monitor to little sister, she's all for it but not too keen on the idea on shelling out for it. The really absurd thing is, we don't even use the desktop except to download stuff off the internet. We both have laptops, and the wireless connection is pretty cool, only the fear of contracting trojan horses and other malware has kept us from using the laptops for downloads, hence the reactivation of the old obsolete desktop.
Was really tempted to take it down and consign it to the folk's house for "safekeeping", but thought against it, untill we get another computer, that is.
*****
Well, I've 4 shots of scotch in me already, and the words on the screen are blurring out. Guess I better get ready to use the "sleeping quarter" for the first time, I'll let you know how it goes in future posts, I suppose.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Check, Call and Raise
I miss poker. Go figure, they're playing poker games on television almost every other night. I try not to watch, but oddly enough, there's always nothing even remotely interesting going on at the same time. So I do, and each time I find myself itching to head to the nearest poker room to hear the sound of ceramic chips falling all over themselves on the felt. I manage to somehow keep myself in check, (no pun intended) and make a sandwich instead. Dunno how long I can keep this up, though.
Fortunately, the fellas have scheduled a poker get-together over the weekend. Mercifully, I can look forward to that night to get my poker fix. Otherwise, I don't think I have the fortitude to last another week.
I've sworn off poker for the year, in case you didn't know. I figure that I can't afford to since I've been trying to get myself in the black. You can't gamble with money you don't have, so I don't gamble anymore. But every now and then, there comes the urge and I find myself wondering how my luck is doing. Last year my luck was pretty good, figure I've won a pot-load in cash games amongst both strangers and friends. But that was still a gamble, and I might just as easily lose as much or even more than I've won.
*****
I have to wonder, my dad used to have a weekly poker game with friends and officemates, but I have no idea if he won more times that he lost. This was way back in the day, when Texas Hold'em was just another game they played with all the other poker game variations. We used to play this kind of poker back in college, but I was never really any good in it, too many things to think about and rules being changed with every hand. I won some of the time, but not a lot to say I was good at it.
Anyway, I do remember something he said about poker, that it was a great way to know the true nature of the people you play with. There were sore losers, bad winners, impatient betters, calm collected thinkers and there were just those people who pushed their luck as much as anyone would let them. But this is only half of the story, it's really about what you do about this knowledge, and that's not only in the game, but in the real world.
So far, I don't think I've put that knowledge into any good use. I can't say I'm illiterate when it comes to being a judge of people, what I'm saying is that I haven't done anything with the knowledge than I've gained. Should I at least try? I just can't help thinking that it's a bit sinister, manipulative and just downright evil.
*****
I'm trying to recall where it was that I've read that life is all just a big gamble. It starts with your own inception, how did that one sperm manage to outswim and outmaneuver all the billion others into penetrating the defenses of that egg? Then there's all the other chances that you had to take, from surviving pregnancy, the first few months, the environment you lived in, the schools you went through up until the job you got. Could it really be destiny or just plain luck that got you where you are today?
At any rate, the mere fact that I'm here writing this, and you're there reading this, is a sure sign we both got lucky so far. To celebrate, I'm getting my snifter and saying cheers to this wonderful game called life. I'll bet it just gets better from here.
Fortunately, the fellas have scheduled a poker get-together over the weekend. Mercifully, I can look forward to that night to get my poker fix. Otherwise, I don't think I have the fortitude to last another week.
I've sworn off poker for the year, in case you didn't know. I figure that I can't afford to since I've been trying to get myself in the black. You can't gamble with money you don't have, so I don't gamble anymore. But every now and then, there comes the urge and I find myself wondering how my luck is doing. Last year my luck was pretty good, figure I've won a pot-load in cash games amongst both strangers and friends. But that was still a gamble, and I might just as easily lose as much or even more than I've won.
*****
I have to wonder, my dad used to have a weekly poker game with friends and officemates, but I have no idea if he won more times that he lost. This was way back in the day, when Texas Hold'em was just another game they played with all the other poker game variations. We used to play this kind of poker back in college, but I was never really any good in it, too many things to think about and rules being changed with every hand. I won some of the time, but not a lot to say I was good at it.
Anyway, I do remember something he said about poker, that it was a great way to know the true nature of the people you play with. There were sore losers, bad winners, impatient betters, calm collected thinkers and there were just those people who pushed their luck as much as anyone would let them. But this is only half of the story, it's really about what you do about this knowledge, and that's not only in the game, but in the real world.
So far, I don't think I've put that knowledge into any good use. I can't say I'm illiterate when it comes to being a judge of people, what I'm saying is that I haven't done anything with the knowledge than I've gained. Should I at least try? I just can't help thinking that it's a bit sinister, manipulative and just downright evil.
*****
I'm trying to recall where it was that I've read that life is all just a big gamble. It starts with your own inception, how did that one sperm manage to outswim and outmaneuver all the billion others into penetrating the defenses of that egg? Then there's all the other chances that you had to take, from surviving pregnancy, the first few months, the environment you lived in, the schools you went through up until the job you got. Could it really be destiny or just plain luck that got you where you are today?
At any rate, the mere fact that I'm here writing this, and you're there reading this, is a sure sign we both got lucky so far. To celebrate, I'm getting my snifter and saying cheers to this wonderful game called life. I'll bet it just gets better from here.
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