A lot of nothing to say

Apparently, "Evil" is my middle name

2011-10-19T22:42:00.003+08:00

According to the opinions of a lot of people, I am pure evil. Yes, a few more steps until I become the antichrist. A lot of stuff I do (or don't) has been regarded as despicable in general opinion. Frankly, it's come to a point wherein I no longer care. If I'm going to hell, I'm sure there are a lot of other folks down there with me.

Anyway, to the curious, I'm listing down the stuff that the general public consider evil:

1. I work for a multinational company.

Ah yes, corporate greed! I earn a decent enough living doing a decent enough job, but am accused of fueling the excesses of the capitalist pig. Furthermore, I'm in sales, which is akin to having one foot planted firmly in hell (while the other keeps you from closing the door in my face). Millions are starving because of people like me. I employ unfair efficient practices to put local companies out of business. What's worse is that I allow precious capital to flow out and into the coffers of my bosses up in the developed world.

And all this Occupy Wall Street crap isn't helping. There the people speak, condemning huge corporations and vowing to stop the global economy in its tracks. If the wheels of the world suddenly stops turning and I find myself out of a job, it's called sweet justice.

Funny though that these people use Twitter and Facebook to spread the word on their iPhones and other neat gadgets that I can't afford. It's not like some hippie couple are cranking out tablets and touchscreen phones out of their kitchen, while their neighbor powers the world wide web using a hand loom and waterwheel.

2. I take the bus or hail a cab to get to where I'm going, plus the fact that I'm saving up for a car.

Because getting from point A to B on your bicycle is the only conscientious way to go. It doesn't emit any greenhouse gas, and no environmentally exploitative measures were necessary to churn out the finite fossil fuel chugged down by a modern internal combustion engine. Most important, it's the healthy alternative.

Never mind that these people usually strap their bikes on top or behind their big-ass SUV's so they can haul it to the park to ride a couple of miles in a circle. Or that the energy expended by their bodies while biking has an equivalence in the amount of daily calories they require which puts greater strain on agricultural resources and the food processing industry, causing prices to rise.

As a disclaimer, I don't claim that a food shortage is imminent once we get everybody riding two-wheelers. I simply want these people to think about something else than bother me about the daily commute. And specially when my eyes sparkle when a Porsche 911 passes me by while crossing the street. *Sigh*

3. My porn collection.

So fine, I watch a "healthy" amount of porn. I subscribe to an industry that by nature objectifies and demeans women, secretaries, Japanese schoolgirls, nurses in short white outfits, librarians, yoga instructors, flight attendants, French maids, female police officers, lingerie models, english tutors, girls next door, cowgirls, naughty college coeds and all the other healthy, fit and fun-loving ladies out there. (I could have gone on and on... but it was getting a bit difficult to concentrate on writing)

But no matter how much porn I watch, it's not like I disrespect women nor prey on them. I have all the respect for the female of the species, and can peacefully coexist with them on a platonic level.

Besides, I've been cutting back lately, I swear!

4. I eat meat.

Alas, I am all the weaker for doing so. Unlike vegans and the like, I have a weakness for a medium rare steak and pork chops. And because of this, I have killed in order to selfishly sustain my foolhardy existence.

The fact that I get as giddy as a schoolgirl when in line at the eat all you can buffet makes me all the more sinister. Little kids and vegans cry while I baste my porkchops with catsup, and butter up the already juicy steak! Porky Pig and Mr. Moo are my victims, and that's just breakfast.

And because of this I'm fat. And people don't like us fatties, because we take up too much space and eat way too much resources. And whenever we wipe our mouths after a bite of a double cheeseburger, vegetarians get up in our faces and inform us that we should be ashamed of our butchering ways. That we should be less of ourselves and more like them. Because they're just fit and fab and perfect.

5. I don't go to church.

I don't. I'm not Christian, not Muslim, not Buddhist, not atheist either. I'm just a plain believer, content to communicate in my own way with the Lord. But of course, this doesn't sit well with the vast majority. Because I don't go to church, I'm evil and hate Him and thus I hate all the world that He created. My church-less Sundays are spent aborting fetuses, lambasting beggars, stealing candy from babies and spitting in the faces of orphans. Oh yes, and I run over cute little puppies and kittens in my spare time.

I don't do any of those things in the last sentence of the preceding paragraph, by the way.

6. I love to put my feet up and relax on the couch.

During my brief siesta spent dreaming about burgers and the girl next door, people claim I should put more effort in making this world a better place. There's always a peace rally to go to, orphans to feed, houses and shelters to build and kittens to adopt. My laziness is directly impeding any progress that could benefit the world. We are stuck in this quagmire because I chose not to do anything.

So people try to make me become more productive. Work harder, give more, have more patience and voice out my opinions for the general good louder. But I don't do as much, I intentionally try to enjoy time for myself. Maybe even catch a few minutes of porn while I'm at it. You can imagine how that doesn't sit too well with the kittens.

7. I smoke and drink alcohol.

Because it is one of the things I enjoy, and calms me, and gives me something to do while thinking. Of course, other people have their own interpretation. While standing in the smoking area, having a stick, some people think I intentionally do this so I could blow smoke in their faces. Like I'm boasting about my right to kill myself if I want to, and taking them down with me in the process via second hand smoke. When people walk up to me while I'm enjoying a drag whilst IN a smoking area to tell me that I should extinguish it, I don't get why they just don't get on with their lives across on their no-smoking side of the parking area and leave me be.

For their information, I didn't intentionally light up to inconvenience them. In fact, I consider myself a considerate enough smoker. I don't smoke when there are lots of people around, and I consciously steer clear of any non-smokers. I even always carry a tictac with me so they won't think ill of my ashtray breath when I have to talk to them. So I don't get why they celebrate when I'm forced to stub out my Marlboro because I'm entering a public space or an enclosed area. My health is my own problem, and when you want to talk to me during my cigarette break responsibly spent in the properly designated smoking area, please just call me on my cell.

*****

And so to all you self-righteous folks out there, I guess I'm going to hell. Too bad though, if I only put a little more effort into it, I might be nominated as a real bad-ass antichrist.

All I want for Christmas...

2011-09-22T00:08:00.003+08:00

Because it's almost Christmas, I'm making a list of the things I want:

1. New threads and shoes for the office.

Yeah, I'm tired of rotating my limited wardrobe. There are only about 7 shirts that I wear with 2 pairs of pants. Heck, my friend's dog has more stuff to wear than I do.

2. An Escalade.

Sometimes, I do tire of taking the bus. On rainy days and on sunny ones. Heck, there are only 2 seasons in this country and apparently commuting is a hassle on both. Maybe an Escalade is over the top, but hopefully with such a lofty target I might end up getting a 2nd hand Hyundai. Beats the bus for sure.

3. A new sofa.

Lately, I've been sleeping on the couch. I find that this little trick enables me to wake up faster. Trouble is the couch is a bit too small that I can't really stretch myself out. Then again, maybe if I get a better couch, I fall back into not waking up as fast. But if it's gonna make the living room look better, what the hell...

4. A better mousetrap.

Surely everyone can appreciate this one.

5. A bigger apartment.

Not that I need one, but I've always wanted a bigger pad. Something like the enormous space Tom Hanks had in the movie "Big". I've always wanted to have enough space for a bowling alley someday, plus I can do all my jogging indoors, too.

6. A ginormous LCD television.

Porn will never be the same once I get my hands on one of those babies!

7. A yacht.

I've always wanted to use the words 'starboard' and 'anchors away'. Plus I hear these toys are virtually irresistible to models. I already have my camera, you know...

8. A real kitchen, with the cast iron skillets and all.

Hmm, this must have a lot to do with the food channel if you ask me.

9. A self-cleaning mop.

There are few things more irritating that having to clean a mop. For one thing, it's been busy cleaning up the things you didn't want to get your hands on so why the heck would I want to touch it now? Mickey had it spot on in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" or whatever flick that was.

10. A pet hamster.

Okay, this little bugger's been on my list for ages. But I'm just not sure I can handle all that responsibility yet.

*****

I had really something witty and grand to end this with... but now I'm sleepy and forgot what the heck it was supposed to be. My fault, each time I listed down one of the wishes above I took a lot of time imagining that I already had it and daydreamed about what I was gonna do.

Oh well, there's always next year.

Gracias, Senor Tequila.

2011-09-12T23:17:00.004+08:00

A couple of nights ago, I found myself staring down into the toilet at what was left of the burger I had for dinner. My gut was heaving but nothing came out, and as reached up to rise to the sink, I expected to see my 19 year old self appear in the mirror. Nope, there I was, still making a mess of myself 15 years later.

Admittedly, it kinda felt stupid.

I thought I was past all this, that I've matured enough to know when enough was enough. And most especially the fact that tequila was, is, and will always be my most sworn enemy. I was almost ashamed to open the door and walk back to the party. But then again, the loud knocking at the door told me to get my ass out of there. Fine, let me just flush that burger down the toilet...

*****

Despite the tattered memory, the badass hangover, the taste of bile in my mouth and a wasted Sunday, Saturday night's party was a blast! (From the bits and pieces of what I remember from it anyway) And I needed it, badly.

For a time, I was feeling a bit tired of the whole "routine". The waking up, working, household chores, a bit of television and the sleeping. It got to the point that even the weekends were governed by a compelling need to fill a schedule and put things in an certain order. Little did I realize until now that I wasn't living the life, rather life was having its way with me. To use a metaphor, I was letting the bus take me where it wanted to go rather than me using the bus to get to where I was supposed to be. (Okay bad metaphor, I might still be a bit hung over)

Right then, with my head down looking at the toilet water and the alcohol-laden contents of my stomach, I realized that I had to take control over my life again. Somehow I let some bus driver hypnotize me with some on-board movie while he took the controls.

*****

Before jumping to any conclusions, no I'm not quitting my job to hop on some Eat, Pray, Love mission. Nor will I embrace the life of a party-boy. And most importantly I won't be going to the opera or watch a play to 'experience culture'. It's just a minor adjustment to my world view, a fine-tuning to how I make everyday decisions.

For instance, when ordering take-out why not pick out something that I've never tried before rather than the usual? Why wait 2 days before calling a girl to ask her out? Or think up excuses why I shouldn't get out of the house on a sunny Saturday morning. For a time, I've let what I thought I should be doing get in the way of what I really wanted to do or to become.

Yesterday, while nursing a giant hangover, I realized that I have been doing some of those things little by little. In the past couple of weeks, I've been using my college acquaintances and contacts to add to my professional network. This used to be taboo for me, because I believed I could do it on my own lest someone accuse me of being a user. So far, no one's been thinking that and as it turns out I have actually helped out as much as they've assisted me. The past month I've also adjusted my attitude with my subordinates at work, from trying to be everybody's friendly boss to letting them know that I'm not going to do their job for them. On the home front, instead of torturing myself in trying to fit everything in place, I threw a lot of stuff I didn't really need out.

These little things, though I didn't realize it at the time, felt so liberating.

*****

Funny how a dose of stupidity can knock some sense into a person. In my case, it's taught me that instead of all the posturing and imagery, what I should really be concentrating on is being my own person once again. Just like that 19 year old who didn't know any better but was just wise enough to know what the more important things in life were.

"It is only with the heart that one can see clearly. What is essential is invisible to the eye." - The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Selling short

2011-09-06T21:25:00.004+08:00

And suddenly I'm on a roll? After more than a month of absence I'm churning out another post so soon? No, this isn't boredom. I got inspired all of a sudden by a friend's facebook status... and it wasn't even about porn.

*****

I went to an elite university for college. By elite, I mean that it's one of those schools where almost everyone wants to get in but only a select few manage to squeeze through. So imagine what an ego boost it was for me to have been one of the luckier ones. I must be a goddam genius! Or maybe I was awfully lucky during the entrance exams, considering that it was multiple choice and I happened to have my lucky marker at the ready. At any rate, that was probably the last time I ever thought of myself as being gifted with a superior intellect. It all went downhill, really really downhill, like a cliff, from thereon.

Anyway, let's fast forward to today. I open facebook looking for hot girls (which is one good reason to have a facebook account, by the way) when I chanced upon my first college crush.

Her status: "Early morning first day of school. Cold and still dark out. Making pancakes for breakfast & ******'s baon. Welcome to my world."

To the untrained eye, it sounds like a rant (hmm, untrained ear might have been more accurate - this is confusing for me). She sounds miserable and likely to sear her face down on the hot flat pan and drown herself in maple syrup. A desperate housewife about to explode. But I assure you, this is not the case.

To explain, let's go back to the good old college freshman years, when I was invincible and mighty and listened to grunge music because it was the "in" thing. There was this girl, nerdy-like, a bit on the plain side for the rest of the guys, but I was hooked. It was one of those weird circumstances where you spent the whole time in class wondering what she would in all probability order on our first date. That date would never happen. It was a potent combination of me being extremely insecure around the opposite sex and her being, well, awesome.

But all was not lost for the shy, bumbling 17-year old me. Technology gave me an opportunity to work around my bashfulness. What I could not say to her face, I was able to communicate through the wonder that is the telephone. I'd call her on weekends, and we'd talk. Nothing heavy, of course, mostly light chit-chat that never really headed anywhere. Kinda like this blog.

That went on for a year, but midway through I realized that there was little chance that it would progress to an actual date. The reason I forget, it was a long time ago, but there wasn't any bitterness at all. I can't recall most of what we talked about, but one particular conversation struck me that I have never forgotten it until this very day.

It was a sunny afternoon, I was lying on my back on the floor while on the phone with her. Hi's and Hello's worked their way into the usual light chatter. And then she let out a bomb: "Aren't you worried that you're failing Math?"

Curiously, at that particular point in time I didn't realize that I was failing Algebra and Trigonometry. I didn't mind my test scores, though I knew they were low. What a total bitch!

"Huh? Who said I was failing?"
"I saw your test scores. You haven't passed a single exam yet."
"Well, they're pretty close to passing anyway. I can still make up for it in the finals."
"You sure?" Okay, this bitch was getting on my nerves now.
"Of course I'm sure."
"Okay. I just don't get how you're still complacent. I can't stand the feeling of me getting low grades."

So she's not a bitch. She's the sweetest little thing in the universe as far as I was concerned! So she knows my scores, and notices how calm and collected I am despite of it. (In reality though, I was too dumb to notice that I was failing)

"Don't worry. I'm not."
"What do you think you'll be after we graduate?" How sweet of her to assume I would actually graduate! Isn't she a dear?
"I dunno, I haven't thought about it yet." What a fucking loser. "And you, what do you want to be when you graduate?"
"I want to have a family. Take care of my kids, my husband. Be a housewife."
"A housewife? Aren't you going to work?"
"I will, for a few years."
"Wait, aren't you selling yourself short here? I mean, you're at the top of our class!"
"No I'm not. I just study harder that the others."
"That's part of the point. Why work hard when..."
"When?" She cut me off... thank goodness.
"I mean, you could be anything you want to be, and you're going to quit one day to stay at home?"
"I don't know, I can't really picture myself not being at home. I love being part of a family. Someday, I want to have my own as well."
"You could do that and have a career, you know."
"I don't think I can."

That thought kept bugging me for a time. It was like knowing Einstein not coming up with the Theory of Relativity because he wanted to play catch with his dog all day. Or Stan Lee thinking up all these crazy superheroes and not writing comic books to do his laundry, or Jack Kennedy not boinking Marilyn Monroe because he had to sign some peace treaty or something that would end the cold war. Wasn't it Uncle Ben who said "With great power comes great responsibility"? Here was someone who consciously excelled in an elite university that most people only dream of attending, and she wants to sell herself short someday.

Me? No one would probably give a rat's ass. At 17, I still had trouble adding fractions. But this girl, top of her class, cute as hell, and able to make butterflies suddenly appear in my stupid teenage stomach, wanted to make pancakes for breakfast and iron her husband's slacks on weekends?

Life went on after that conversation. She graduated with honors, I took my sweet time and needed 4 more years to fulfill her prophecy. I sort of lost track of her amid all the parties, the booze and the hangovers. Just recently I got a chance to check up on her through facebook. She's got her own family now, still working but doting on her little ones.

She rarely posts anything on her facebook status, but this one that I chanced upon made me smile. She made it! It also made me realize that to become 'something', you've got to know what you really want out of yourself first. I guess I'll have to keep working on that. Hopefully someday, I'll also be able to sell myself short.

Hold the Viagra...

2011-09-05T00:42:00.003+08:00

Writing's becoming a chore these days. Yeah, that's the excuse I'm giving for being too lazy to publish any posts recently. Sure there were days past when I'd be shooting off multiple posts a day, but I'm getting old I guess and these bursts come few and far between now. It's entirely possible that I could wolf down whatever is the literary equivalent of viagra to move things along, but why bother? If I don't wanna write, I don't need to, right? This is my blog, and I'll be as selfish as I want to be with it. It isn't like I'm getting paid for it, nor will I get a Pulitzer for my efforts.

To be fair though, there is a certain satisfaction that I get when people read my stuff. It's a boost to any writer's ego, so when I do write stuff up I enjoy people reading it. Thanks guys, for putting up with the load of crap I've rammed down your throats all these years.

*****

Some of you may be wondering how work has been for me these past few months.(Or at least I pretend that some of you give a hoot) Well, things are alright. Nothing spectacular, I haven't saved the world yet, but it's okay. For the most part, I'm learning to regulate how much work I'm actually able to take in. The early months have been an education on the phrase "biting off more than you can chew". So I've vomited a chunk of the excess and now am concentrating on getting the rest of it down. Understand that with my former place of employment, this wasn't a problem simply because there were less responsibilities. With the free rein I now have with my job, I feel like I've just gotten out of college desperate to lay my claim on the world.

Another thing that I've learned (or in this case re-learned) with my current job is the merits of taking public transportation. For loose change, I'm able to sit smugly in my seat and let the bus driver worry about the heavy traffic on Wednesday and Friday nights. And parking is the least of my worries when going out, so I can choose wherever bar or hangout I wish to go to without having to factor in the amount of parking space available. Of course, people watching is always a plus. Whenever anyone gets on or off, I mentally profile them. Their jobs, how old they are, is that guy gonna mug me tonight, did she get a good enough education, are they dating or just friends... you get the idea. Riding the bus along with the mainstream of society sharpens my people-judgement skills in a way.

Inside the office, I'm also learning with how to deal with people who are smarter than I am and yet are unable to understand what is expected of them. Not their fault, these guys were trained to work within the normal parameters of the corporate life, thus a weaker inclination think outside of the box. Wait, I'm not saying that's wrong, just that they are afraid to take risks or get their hands dirty. Me, I don't like playing things safe, that's no fun at all. One thing I do realize is that I need to figure out a way to be able to connect with these people so that they not only "get" what I'm driving at, but to also appreciate the benefits of risk taking every once in a while.

More on that in the future, I suppose. I don't really feel like talking about work just now.

*****

But what do I want to talk about? As usual, I don't know. I just felt the urge to tap on the keyboard tonight and this is what's coming out.

*****

Slightly tangential to the work thing, I've been overhearing stuff about money, how they feel they deserve more than they are actually getting. While this may have quite a lot of merit to it, the reality is that you will never really get as much as you deserve. That's just business. If you and every one else in a company are able to get as much as what you think you deserve, nine out of ten that company's going bust pretty soon.

I've always held the opinion that if you don't like the pay, then you can always quit and get another job. If you can't get another job that pays better than what you have now, then the problem lies with you, doesn't it? Of course, there will always be cases where the difference between what you think you should be making and what you are actually getting is humongous. If that's the case, (assuming you're correct in your computations) then I don't think you'd have any problems getting another job with a more justified compensation.

My point: stop whining and do something than just yakking your head off at the water cooler. Either quit or work harder to merit a raise.

A 6 month affair

2011-07-10T23:05:00.002+08:00

I'm supposed to be working, playing catch up to the myriad tasks that I'm supposed to prepare for. It is a Monday tomorrow, the busiest day of the week. But I just can't pass up on this time to write. It's been a while, after all, and there is just no saying no to this little journal of sorts that I've been sharing.

*****

So this coming Thursday, I'd have been working for my new bosses for exactly 6 months. To tell you the truth, it doesn't feel like 6 months, it feels more like 6 years now. I'm not sure if that's a good or a bad thing, but definitely it's been enough time lapsed for me to look back and assess where I've been and where I'm going to.

6 months ago, I had no idea what the future held for me. I was on vacation in a foreign land, looking out the window into the freezing cold ether, cigarette in hand and a tiny whisky bottle by my side. I had just ended an 8-year relationship with my old job, and admittedly, I was scared shitless. Funny how I viewed my old job as a relationship, throughout all the frustrations and pressure and abject poverty, I loved that job. My moving on had nothing to do with hate nor indifference, just the realization that there was a bigger world out there, and that I wanted to be a part of it. Selfish, ambitious prick that I am.

The new job, or relationship, proved to be a giant leap in a totally different direction. After ditching the small town girl next door, I found myself in the arms of a career woman who took no shit from anybody. This wasn't Kansas anymore, welcome to the real world of players, hustlers and sharks. Didn't I say I wanted to be a part of the bigger ocean? Well, I definitely came to the right place!

In no time, I found myself overextended and entertaining feelings of inadequacy. There was no place for sugar-coating and excuses, and no points for trying, either. Either deliver or go home. So I was doing everything and anything, holding on to apron strings for dear friggin' life. After 2 months, my boss resigned, apparently seeking a slower pace. So I was left to my own devices, somewhere between limbo and f*cked.

It was somewhere at this point, in the middle of inhaling 2 packs of cigarettes a day, that I realized I was actually in a great position. Not everyone gets an opportunity to go from being a cog in a small family-owned company to getting first crack to carve out his own place in a global corporation. I was serendipitously caught at the right place at the right time, with fairly equal chances of success and doom. I liked my chances.

That was 3 months ago, so far I haven't gone that far in my quest. There are just too many brick walls that need to be hurdled. But I haven't thrown in the towel just yet.

Well, my impossibly insatiable mistress awaits. I'll let you know what happens in the next few days, but whatever the case I can safely say that I learned more in the past 6 months than all those 8 past years. Hopefully the learning continues, because there's a heck of a lot more out there.

Petrol-headed

2011-06-28T00:11:00.002+08:00

This afternoon, after a meeting that lasted over 5 hours I realized that after the brain is tapped out, there's pretty little use for it. For the life of me, there was no getting back in the groove. All brain activity that was left could only command my hand to bring the pizza to my mouth and it in turn to chew and swallow. So in the office, I was reduced to mundane work, like stapling my receipts and doodling boobs all over my notebook. Takes me back to my days in college (except I didn't have a notebook then, only the hard wooden surface of my desk).

I should have just left, went home and recharged. But the sun was out, and it was hot as hell. Taking advantage of the office's free airconditioning wasn't a bad thing at all. Plus there was pizza, so I stayed put.

Then the familiar urge hit me, so I braved the hot and humid Manila air and choked myself on some cancer sticks outside the building. To amuse myself, I started counting cars passing me by while reconstructing the song "Counting Blue Cars" in my head. Well, tried to reconstruct it anyway, I never got past the chorus. Then the game turned into an hour of envy. There were all these cars passing by, and I wanted one of my own. Sure, cars are pretty impractical most of the time, specially when you live a short and convenient commute from the office. But I wanted one, if only to be able to escape the drudgery of my boring existence.

Okay, so if I was to buy a car, what should I get? Ahh, there's that debate again, the one I've been having with myself since I've decided to save up for one. Brand new or second hand? Japanese or Korean? (American and European models are just way off my budget, sadly) Smart car or bad ass SUV? This is just one of those choices where you know whichever one you pick, you'll be picking the wrong one. Fortunately, I don't have to torture myself in the short term so I stub out my cigarette, light up another one and move on.

Hypothetically, let's say I buy a car this morning. Where do I go? Home, of course is the last place you're going to think of. The day you get your first car, your mind goes nuts and you become that reckless teenager once again about to squander your life's savings on your first lap dance. This is one of those milestones in a man's life, the first bottle of beer, the first time you see an actual boob, bases 1 through 4, and I'm told the birth of your first child. You just can't let these moments go to waste.

So where to? With whom, or should I go solo? Do I bottle up a sample of that new car air? Should I head to the beach or the mountains? How long should I wait before I allow myself to fart inside the car? Obviously, these big decisions have to be made. I just hope I'll be ready with my answer when that time comes.

Last weekend, I actually got to driving again. It might have felt good, if only I was sober enough to enjoy it. It was 5 in the morning, I just sobered up but was sort of still out of it. I was too concentrated on the road than on the feel of the pedals and wheels. What a waste.

So I guess I miss driving, having the power to decide your own fate and the direction you're headed to. And as I was standing there finishing up my last stick of cigarette, I hated all those drivers passing by, taunting me with the smell of their fumes and the sweet sound of an internal combustion engine. While I sit in the bus, pre-destined to take a certain route, these guys can decide which road to take, to stop and take a leak when they felt like it, to brake just a tad harder than necessary just because.

Just before I stubbed out the last embers, a guy in a tiny Hyundai drives up the garage and guns the engine one last time before cutting it off. He was car number 203, the bastard.

Distractions versus "Justin Bieber"

2011-06-10T22:19:00.003+08:00

And wouldn't you know it, this blog seems to be getting harder and harder to write. There's just so little time left over from work and that whining mistress of mine, the laundry. And just when you thought you finally managed to free yourself from it all, your blanket greedily clutches you in its fluffy arms and drains whatever iota of consciousness you have left.

Some days, I find myself waiting to be distracted from the drudgery of it all.

And it's not just this blog that I've been neglecting, lots of other important matters are being left up in the air. Take for example the need to populate my wardrobe with more spiffy threads. Somehow, I'm still dressing up for some 90's grunge concert. Baggy pants, plaid shirts and a bad goatee. Okay, the goatee is because of the pimple that's been squatting on my chin for some time now, but the rest I owe to my laziness and superior laundry skills. Yeah, I've owned some of the shirts I've been wearing for a decade now, that's how anal I am with the wash cycle. There is hope though, I did buy a shirt some weekends ago to wear to some fancy work-related event. Never got the pants, nor the shoes, nor the tie, not even a belt that doesn't look like it's turning back into a cow. That's what happens when you leave your mom's house and live on your own, you devolve back to your inner Neanderthal.

Before any of you make any suggestions, let me explain that a distraction is entirely different from a hobby. No don't bother to look it up in the dictionary, I don't really care if I'm wrong about the definition in your world, but in MY world, as I've said, it's worlds apart. There are a lot of things that I could do in lieu of my more mundane activities. I've considered baking, jogging, painting, finishing that damn Gabriel Garcia Marquez book, pest control (okay, maybe that needs prioritizing), carpentry and all sorts of stuff. Writing about them is about as far as I've gotten to realizing any of those things. Now those are hobbies. But distractions... they're... 'distracting'? I mean they're just so darn irresistible that your brain turns to mush and you forget how dumb that fascinated look on your face is. Think about how a fat kid stares at a doughnut, or a 12 year old girl goes apeshit for Justin Bieber.

Distractions are what makes our lives more interesting.

Oh, and another thing I just thought of to differentiate a distraction from a hobby, the former is fleeting while the latter is gonna suck the life out of you. It's like having a one night stand with Britney Spears versus spending a lifetime of her going all trailer park on you. Bad analogy perhaps, but I did enjoy thinking up my imaginary one-nighter.

Beware though, as there are distractions that are quite unpleasant. These tend to make your life even more miserable than it already (surely) is. (Yes, I'm quite sure because you've got nothing better to do than read this blog, dear reader) So in MY world, the definition of the word 'distraction' is always positive. I'm calling its negative equivalent 'Justin Bieber' instead. No I'm not a hater, I just don't imagine myself uttering his name too often in my lifetime, guaranteeing a long and pleasant life ahead of me. For instance, you know those few minutes in the middle of a porno when the actors suddenly appear out of nowhere...*GASP*... FULLY DRESSED! JUSTIN FRIGGIN' BIEBER! (Oh the horror!)

I'll admit, there are some people who find their lives ruined by all sorts of distractions. Take for example the guy who got distracted by the chick in the car besides his, right before he got bashed up really bad by the oncoming truck he failed to notice. Or the prisoner who got distracted by the bar of soap which he dropped on the floor... you probably know how that always ends. That's not what I hope to happen to me, of course (specially the incident with the soap, I'd probably choose the car crash over that).

My former mentor taught me that to ensure success in life, you have to constantly remind yourself how it feels to be fulfilled. This isn't just the one thing, it may be a bunch of different stuff, but what's essential is that you have to make it a point to feel great about yourself at least once a day. For him, it was finishing his Sudoku game during breakfast. I tried it with computer chess for a month... I felt miserable losing and arriving late to the office every day for that month. Wasn't the best of ideas I've had for sure. But the principle is sound, you just have to find that something that you enjoy and you're good at, and make it fuel the day with feeling good about yourself.

Before anyone says anything, NO I WILL NOT DO YOUR LAUNDRY.

Welcome to another in my long line of under-achievements

2011-05-16T00:22:00.003+08:00

Something has to be said about my losing streak. You see, I've been playing this PC game, Sid Meier's Civilization, off and on for almost 2 decades now. And so far, I haven't won a single time. Well that's not entirely true, I've won a number of times on the easy levels, but having your opponent playing with an arm behind his back certainly doesn't count, at least for me. The games that matter to me are those where I play at the level of the AI, because that's where the bragging rights are. Of course, there hasn't been anything to brag about yet which has been a big frustration for me.

So far, the score looks something like this: Man 0 - Computer 5,683. This sucks.

The funny thing about it is, I know I can win this stupid game. But sadly I can't seem to pull it off because I get so damn excited when I'm winning that I make careless mistakes. This is true not only on the computer, by the way. My poker game has also been witness to this meltdown. So has my billiard game. And darts. WHY THE HECK DOES THIS HAPPEN!?

Yesterday afternoon, after another frustrating game of Civ (I was a far first place, until I got cocky and decided to prolong a war with Napoleon, draining me of resources, landing me a close 2nd place in the end) I sat back and tried to get to the bottom of this phenomenon. I reached deep down into my psyche (scary shit, I tell you) and summoned my inner Freud. Turns out, I loathe winning. Something in my past has wired me this way, so that each time I get close enough to the target, I slow down and let another guy go first.

But why? What event could have triggered this?

As with all psychological investigations, I suspected my mom was behind all this. If Tony Soprano's mom could have messed him up that bad, why can't mine? I was told I was breastfed as a kid, could it be that? Is breastfeeding good for the body but bad for the psyche? Let's dismiss that thought. Thinking about my mom's boobs and writing about it here is just... wrong.

Let's move on to the next suspect, my childhood. Maybe I was raised wrong. I mean, growing up I didn't really have a knack for basketball like the other kids. So the competitivity (is that a word?) wasn't there and here I am, a broken PC gamer. I did play soccer though, as a full-back. You know, the guy in backfield who's not the kick-ass goalie? Maybe that's it... as a kid I was the guy who wasn't expected to win the game but was more likely to lose it by letting the opposing forward go by, leaving the poor goalie to fend for himself.

I did enjoy other games, though. The kind you played in your neighbor's backyard, up a tree, in the streets where all the cars and cabs and jeeps rolled by. So maybe being the useless fullback wasn't it.

Arrgh, this is so frustrating! Frustrating enough that I open grooveshark and look for "Self-Esteem" by The Offspring.

(This is the part where I load the music, get up from my seat and take a piss while singing to the tune)

And now we're back! (While I was gone - which you would probably have no idea how long for - I took the liberty of also searching for Beck's "Loser", Frank's "Send in the Clowns" and various videos of Kylie Minogue, because she's hot, and she doesn't judge me.)

While I was elsewhere, I thought of my Catholic upbringing. No, technically I'm not Catholic, but I did have 10 years worth of Catholic schooling, wherein I joined a Bible Contest, where I landed... guess where, SECOND place! But seriously, aren't Catholics bred for this kind of torture? All that guilt from all those past generations of sinners, and how humility and meekness and suffering are the ultimate tickets to those Pearly Gates (or the Dark Side, ask Yoda)? Could my frustrations actually be pre-ordained? In which case, upon my tombstone shall the words "Never won on earth, better luck in Heaven, loser!" be engraved.

At the risk of thunder and lightning coming down on my ass, I'd better stop ranting about religion. (Sorry Father, for I have sinned...)

There is another theory, though... that all this losing is borne out of my disdain for the glory of winning because of the heightened expectations. You know, take LeBron James, for instance. He's what we call a winner, MVP, the go-to-guy. And yet, when he rims out his shot we all call him a goat and boo him all the way out of the arena. I'm willing to bet that if the ball ended up in the hands of someone else, say Eddie House, in the final second with the potential game-winner, and he flubs it, he'd get a pat on the back and several "That's a tough shot for anyone...". See where I'm going with this?

Let's say that I did win at Civilization, then what next? Do I move on to other games, having to purchase more expensive titles and re-learn it? What if I did win big in poker, do I move on from house games to the casino? And if I graduated at the top of my class in grade school or high school, would my parents approve of all the drinking and going to parties, expecting me to study my ass off every day to become summa cum laude? And let's say I did do everything right in college and graduated with respectable marks, wouldn't people expect me to be some kind of wunderkind know-it-all who saves the nation's economy overnight? Man, that's just too much pressure for someone who likes his beer cold and the women hot.

Which brings me back to my hatred of Freddie Prinze Jr. Yeah, I've ranted against him some posts back explaining it. I'd post a link to it if I weren't the lazy type, tough luck for you, I guess. Anyway, guys like Freddie Prinze, Jr. (Or his characters, anyway) always have this innate need to set the bar high up, thus making us all look bad.

I know, I know, there's nothing wrong with being an achiever. But hey, nothing wrong being an under-achiever too, you know! We let them do their thing, and we'll be fine on our own devices.

Well, all this bitterness has dragged on for too long, I suppose. If you can't beat 'em, then I'll just go grab me a nice cold one and watch Kylie Minogue over-achieve herself.

So you're the expert, huh?

2011-05-03T21:39:00.002+08:00

Has anyone ever called you an expert? A specialist? Well I have, just this afternoon. Apparently, I'm an expert in "business development".

I can't believe it either.

*****

I guess you've noticed, I haven't been posting much. It's a bit difficult when you get into the office at 8 in the morning and clock out a little past 8 in the evening. Then when I get home, I open my laptop and work some more. It's exhausting, and I've been sporting raccoon eyes for the past month. This is what I've traded my old life for.

And so far, I'm loving it.

I can't seem to put my finger on it, but there's a great thrill getting home knowing that you've just worked your ass off and you're gonna be back at it again tomorrow. And shamefully, I've reached a point that I'm so darn efficient at it that people have been piling more work on me and going out on holiday. So much for the guy who needed 8 1/2 years to finish a 4-year course in college, and the king of the third floor who came to the office at 10 and left at 4.

*****

Wait, let's go back to the original statement, that I'm some sort of expert. In my opinion, either they're lying or they don't know me at all.

You see, all this effort I'm doing isn't really worth shit if I don't produce results. So far, all the projects that I've been taking on are in their incubation stage and the company has been taking a loss (ie my salary) waiting for them to bear fruit. Until the time when I have actually gotten one of these babies up and running and earning a decent profit for the company, then there is no achievement to speak of.

Unlike you regular joes, those on the factory floor or behind a desk, the job is pretty unforgiving. It's either I succeed or I don't, there are no points for trying and no excuses either. If it rains cats and dogs or a great big shark suddenly drops down from the sky and lands squarely on my head, the question would still be "Have you turned a profit, yet?".

Which actually makes the job all the more exciting. It's always a race to keep the company profitable and relevant. No laurels to rest on, no month-end to party after and no time for grief when a project is struck dead. When you get something up and running, it's time to move on to the next one. When the project implodes in your face, no choice but to keep working on the back-up plan.

*****

Of course, there is concern down the line. Won't I be depriving myself of a life? Will this career I've chosen turn me into a machine? Can my body keep up with itself and all the stress I'm gaining day in and day out?

Yesterday, there was a buzz at the office. Someone from the back-office died from an apparent cardiac arrest at the age of 27. I was told she was an indefatigable stalwart of the HR Department, and from what little contact I've made with her, she was a busy little bee indeed. The question "Will that happen to me?" rang a tiny little bell in my tiny little brain. I never got a chance to answer, my phone rang and in a second I was confirming a meeting for that morning.

Then there's my boss, holding top position in two separate companies with operations spanning 15 countries. I get an email from her at 12 midnight, and another one at 6:00 o'clock in the morning. One morning, as I was getting myself prepped up for a meeting with her, her assistant called me postponing our meeting to tomorrow. Apparently, she fainted from a vitamin deficiency or something. Also apparently, this was a regular occurrence that everyone in the office is sort of used to. The next day, I was having coffee with her at the office while going over line items in a research proposal I was doing.

Am I doomed?

*****

In my eccentric and over-simplified world, there are two types of people: those who take time off to stop and smell the flowers, and those who pull harder against the yoke so the flower-smellers get a chance to do so. I sort of transitioned from the former to the latter and so far, I'm finding the latter to be a better place at the moment. Mainly, the motivation I'm discovering is self-worth, that in the greater scheme of things I'm actually earning my keep. It's something I haven't felt in a long while, something that gives me an iota of entitlement.

And this entitlement that I'm feeling is really grand, even with the realization that I haven't made anything work yet. Some days ago, while listening to a friend of mine whine and bitch about his life over a number of bottles of beer, I can't help wearing a smug smile on my face, it was like looking at a mirror that reflected myself a number of years ago. I still have problems of course, still poor and alone. But now it's all a game, a puzzle to be solved and a chance to think out of the box.

*****

If there's one thing I'm sad about, though, it's that I haven't the chance to write as often as I want. Obviously, I'm having trouble keeping a singular train of thought, explaining all this gibberish that you're reading (in case you made it all the way here). I love writing, and there's always this dream of mine to write a good enough short story or novel even. I don't even have to be published, just knowing that I have written something is good enough for me. But unless I give some time to it, writing stuff on a more regular basis and improving a tad bit on stuff like grammar and spelling and vocabulary and sense, I don't think I'd have enough goods even for a haiku.

Don't worry, I'll keep trying (more torture for you folks) and spewing out nonsense in the meantime. Which reminds me I've got a report due tomorrow and a follow-up on a project on clean coal. How that reminded me? I dunno, really. A lot of stuff up in my head that I can't really explain the workings of.

Sense-less (As usual)

2011-04-07T20:59:00.003+08:00

Hi! Been a while, hasn't it? Well, it's not that I haven't been writing, in fact I've got a bunch of posts saved as drafts. Mostly they were about work, so I didn't think you'd like them anyway.

*****

So now I'm here, what to write about? Oh, I dunno... my life has been pretty boring as of late. Well, not that boring, just monotonous. Yeah, work has a lot to do with it, I guess. I'm working my ass off to stay employed. I hear jobs are pretty scarce nowadays, and the price of cigarettes are going up as well. Need that job to slowly kill myself with smoke.

Speaking of killing, I'm sure you noticed the picture of a rat pinned down by a flat iron that I posted the last time. (Yeah, got pretty lazy I didn't bother to write the story I wanted) Anyway, he's now our official mascot at home. When there's nothing else to do, my sister and I think up new ways of making its life more miserable. Guaranteed to bring a smile to your face each time.

Like the time I threw him into the laundry. I could imagine him squeaking and helpless, battling the spinning monster that is the washing machine. Or the time I put him in the microwave, hoping he's scare my sister during breakfast. Well, my sister didn't really see him and almost toasted him to dust. My favorite would probably be hiding him in the freezer... after which he stank like a hotdog. (The inspiration for throwing him in the laundry, in fact)

He survived. Rats are survivors anyway. He must have over 200 lives by my last count. We're trying to push him to see if he's got at least 500 more.

*****

Have I told you about my new favorite thing? No, not the rat, (close second, though) it's decaf. Yeah, coffee without having to worry about being awake until 3am. I started buying the stuff when I realized that I was downing too may cups of joe lately. I drink coffee when I wake up, when I get to the office, before lunch, after lunch and when I get home. Sometimes, I make myself a really generous mug of the stuff, and wonder why I always feel like there's an earthquake.

Why all that coffee? Because when you're a miser, and the coffee at the office is free, you get ideas.

So now, I drink decaf when I wake up (same effect of making you wanna poop), and when I get home. My house is now a caffeine-free zone! Obviously I get to sleep better as well, which saves me about an hour of being in zombie mode in the morning.

Now all this makes me wonder, who the heck invented the stuff? How did he suddenly realize that one day, someone would want to drink coffee without having to worry about not being able to sleep early? And then the more important question comes: If decaf is now a household name, why isn't non-alcoholic beer? I mean, I certainly wouldn't touch the stuff, and yet I hate hangovers. Do you think these alternatives were invented by one and the same guy? (Google away, people!)

So what other things have been bastardized of their original purpose? Do electronic cigarettes count? Zero-calorie soda? Veggie-meat? Invisible ink? Riverdale the movie? Pamela Anderson's breast reduction?

*****

I've been thinking of buying a car. I had to return my old one after I resigned from the company that actually owns it so now I'm taking the bus. But this afternoon, when I actually visited the dealership across the street from my office, I had second thoughts. Do I really need one?

Sure cars are convenient, but I've been doing alright for the past 2 months now without one that I'm beginning to wonder if I should buy one. Of course, there are times when I wish I had one at my disposal, but these have been few and far between, and almost always a cab is there to ferry me wherever I pleased.

Yesterday, I was on an out-of-office trip. I can't tell you how fun it was to sleep in the passenger's seat while a driver was doing all the work for you. I think I even snored myself awake a few times, but hell, I've logged enough hours doing the driving that I deserved this! And those times that I was awake, I did nothing but stare out of the window like a kid. Yeah, being a passenger is fun.

Irony...

2011-03-15T20:13:00.002+08:00

Back in the Saddle

2011-03-13T00:56:00.002+08:00

So I'm out of wine. Wait, that's not true. I've still got a box of the stuff in my room, ancient relics from Christmas when I got lazy and decided my clients would live through the holidays without 'em. Nonetheless, I tired of drinking free booze and made a late night trip to the convenience store for some real liquor.

That's when I saw an old friend, a particular brand of el mucho cheapo brandy that doubles as kerosene, I'm sure. Must admit, it made me smile. Takes me back to another time, when all I wanted to do was drown myself in the stuff.

Took one off the shelf and promptly paid for it.

*****

Yes, another Saturday at home. Slept the whole day, too. It's a nice feeling, just watching the dust bunnies stage their impending assault behind the living room sofa. Was tempted to move 4 feet to get the vacuum cleaner, but hell, let 'em have their day. I'm too lazy to bother.

Which brings me to this blog, which I realize has not been replenished of my usual nonsense for almost a month. A few of you may wonder why, has my life finally found some direction and meaning? Have I taken a tour of India for some Eat, Pray Love bullshit? Did I slip and fall in the shower, laid comatose and becoming rat-food all this time? Nope, not yet anyway (though I'm sure the rats are still plotting). Chalk this one up to my inability to hold one single coherent idea for more than a minute.

Oh, and did you know I'm employed again? Yeah, I was unemployed for a week, but now I'm in voluntary slavery again. How is it? Fine, I guess. A little ruffled at all the actual work that is expected of me. I knew I shouldn't have put all those "achievements" in my resume. Now they think I'm some sort of wunderkind who has all the answers.

Why did I have to leave the old nest? That place where I installed myself as king of the third floor and made doing my job look a lot harder than what it really was (the real truth of it was that I really didn't do anything but lug around some notes and some official looking printouts and read the reports of my staff). And it wasn't like someone found out, too. When I told them I was leaving my third floor kingdom, they even made a counter offer! Maybe I should have taken it, it wasn't bad at all. And I almost did, too. If they just put it just a tinsy weensy bit more (like a dead horse's head in my bed, perhaps) I would've jumped on it.

Well, that's history now. And I've got this real (real) job where they expect me to do stuff for real (really) and expect me to produce real (I can't over-stress how real this is to me) results. I hate to say this, but the prospects of me hitting the streets is pretty real enough as well. THE REAL WORLD SUCKS!!! I want to go back to college and do nothing but copy off my seatmate and wait for the next booze-fest to begin. *sigh*

*****

Yes I know, I'm beginning to sound like a whining little bitch. Don't worry, I'm beginning to lose respect for myself as well. Even more than you guys are, probably. Whatever is that saying, 'Be careful what you wish for, because Santa just might give it and drop that big 55-inch television right on your head'?

Oh, if you're wondering, no I haven't bought myself a 55-inch television just yet off my salary. I was gonna, but settled for a bottle of cheap brandy instead. Tastes much better with ice, too. (What the heck am I blabbering about? Gee, I dunno. This is real cheap brandy, didn't I just say?)

I've gotta stop talking to myself...

2011-02-18T20:24:00.003+08:00

It's the year 2030, there I am walking slowly around the academic oval at the university. Funny feeling seeing yourself old and gray, and much weaker than you were. I hesitate approaching myself, not sure if the cosmos would take it well and decide to zap me into non-existence, but I'm already here and it would be utterly dumb to just do nothing at this point.

Then old me sees young me and squints, in disbelief. Future me stops his step awkwardly, wiping the sweat from his brow and wheezes a bit. Boy I should really stop smoking, I guess.

"Hey, you're me!", old me exclaims.
"Uhm, guess so. How are you, I guess?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?", crap, even in old age I'm that smug.
"Ok, I see I'm still alive so that must be a plus."
"Dumbass..."

*****

"So, you married?" I can't help but ask while he swirls his whisky, making the ice cubes jiggle and clatter against each other.
"Yeah."
"Do I know her?"
"Of course you do, dumbass!"
"Wow, so many years and you're still stuck with that word? Didn't your vocabulary get any bigger? I meant, do I know her in the present tense, in my time?"
"How old are you again?"
"Thirty-ish."
"Nah, I'm not telling. You just might spoil everything."
"Yeah, that's alright. Any kids, though?"
"You'll know soon enough." He flashes a smile, and I feel a big lump in my throat.
"REALLY?! You can't be fucking serious?!"
"Hahaha, I'm not saying, of course."
"Ass." I get back to my beer. It seemed so much more mature than present (future?) company.
"I'll tell you one thing, though..."
"Fucking finally!"
"Hey! You wanna hear it or not?"
"What already?!"
"You're life is great. Personally, I'm a little pissed that you came all the way here to check up on it."
"Well, you can't be too careful, you know."
"Dumbass."
"Did I knock my head on something in the future? I'm beginning to think I turn dumber with age."
"Aw shut up already. You're still alive and drinking in 20 years, that you know now. Isn't that enough?"

Oddly enough, now that I have seen myself old, I sense that the trip was a bit of a letdown. Why did I want to check up on myself? Because I wanted to know if I should stop smoking already?

"Listen kid, since you're here already, I might as well give you some advice."
"Like what?"
"Well, of course I've had some regrets. And though I don't really believe that I should dwell on those, the fact that you're here makes it all convenient, doesn't it?"
"What regrets?"
"If you ever decide to get a hooker, never for a second believe that they're mute. NEVER."
"Why?"
"Just remember that. Saves me a lot of embarrassment."
"Well, me needing a hooker between my age and yours is a bit of an embarrassment already, won't you say?"
"Here here!"
"Got anything else?"
"Yeah, call the folks more often than you do. Visit them more often, too."
"Really?"
"Yeah." I look down at my beer, not wanting to ask more of it. "Tell your sisters the same thing too. It's no big deal, really, you just don't want to feel like you never did enough, understand?" I nod.

It was awkward now, as we both just sat there drinking to ourselves.

*****

Apparently, I do not age well as I find myself having to endure older me belting out an Elton John tune in the full drunken state. Although I'll have to say that the for someone over 50 who finished about 8 shots of scotch, being awake is probably a bonus.

He points me to a park bench, and I stop my future car (a station wagon, of all things!) opposite it on a curb. Older me struggles to get out of his seat, though he did swat my hand away when I tried to help. He finds his bearing soon enough and lands his ass on the bench.

"Oh crap! I end up a bum at the park?!"
"For the love of God shut the fuck up! I'm not bringing you to my house, It'll spoil everything!"
"As long as I don't end up a bum, that's all right by me."
"Give me a cigarette." I hand one over to him and light it up.
"Ahh, I've missed these. I've had to stop smoking because of asthma."
"I don't have asthma."
"Not mine, dumbass!"
"Oh, okay. Just checking."
"You still have a copy of 'The Little Prince'?"
"No, I gave it away, remember?"
"Oh yeah, to that bitch, right!"
"You ever see her again?"
"One time, I think."
"Oh."
"Yeah, 'Oh'." The little asswipe grins.
"What about the book?"
"Get another copy, don't give it away this time. Read it again. It'll make you smart."
"Like you, 'dumbass'?"
"Yeah like me. Hell, you don't really have a choice, do you?"
"I do, actually. You might even like the odds."
"Don't you try being smug. I'm not the still watching porn."
"Oh shit, I turn impotent at 50! Ouch, what's the big idea!"
"I'm not impotent! Dumbass!"
"Of course, I'm pretty sure Viagra's gonna still be available... Ow!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
"Alright, alright! Can't I take a joke?"

*****

"Why the station wagon?"
"Depth perception, I've been having trouble with it lately."
"I see. Hey, can I ask you something?"
"Seeing as you went through all that trouble to be here, I'm assuming that's the whole point, isn't it?"
"Yeah, whatever gramps. Anyway, are you happy?"
"Well, it ain't perfect that I'll say. That's such a fucked up question! And you're supposed to be smart? Jeez!"
"Oh come on! Can't you answer even that?!"
"It ain't the right question! You can't go asking anybody if they're happy, what the hell does that mean, anyway? If I were happy, then I wouldn't have been cursing my ass off when I missed the toilet bowl completely this morning, would I?"
"That's just great, I get to be that crabby old man in the neighborhood."
"No, I'm not. You just asked such a stupid question."
"What should I have asked then?"
"When you get to be my age, you never think about being happy. Just content."
"Content?"
"Yeah, you should ask, 'Are you content?'".
"Fine. Are you content?"
"Yeah, I am. Thanks for asking."
"I still don't get it."
"That's why I keep calling you a dumbass, dumbass!"

Bus boy

2011-02-01T02:06:00.008+08:00

Perfect timing, just when I'm about to forfeit the use of a company-issued car, I see the news and there it is, a bus exploding. My favorite form of public transport is under attack. Apparently, not so many people share my love city buses.

Before the bombing, there was all the attacks against buses plying EDSA, the city's main thoroughfare. They were the leading cause of traffic and pollution, it was said too many times and a as result, were subjected to the vehicle reduction scheme implemented on private vehicles and taxis. One friend of mine even goes as far to declare that the city should be rid of all buses to finally solve the traffic and pollution problems, on her facebook page. That wall post got a lot of likes and positive comments.

Here's a picture of bus traffic, to give a fair picture of why she's ranting about buses:

If you happen to agree with my friend or generally hate buses, be warned that in the following sentences I will be defending the noble and hard-working city buses. So if you hate them and doubt that your opinion of them would ever change, then you may stop now and save yourself the grief.

*****

It was the year 1990 when I first faced the prospect of commuting to high school on a daily basis. I was in my second semester of freshman high school, which was also the year that I discovered a love for arcade games. However, the only chance that I had to play them was right after school at the mall, which kinda interfered with the carpool schedule. So I ditched the carpool and had taken up the courage to commute to and from school via the bus.

The bus ride to school from our house was a daily 15-20 minute ordeal. The chances of me getting a seat were minimal as I hopped on the bus right smack in the middle of its route between two commercial business districts, but that didn't really bother me too much. The free time that it afforded me to stay out longer after classes was enough to justify the temporary hassle. It was real cheap, too which meant more tokens to burn at the arcade on my limited allowance. Thus came the start of my love for these city buses.

Of course, there were dangers, I'll admit. Every so often, you get to sit or stand beside some weirdo who didn't think it necessary to take a shower more than once a week. Pedophiles and exhibitionists also presented themselves every couple of months, and con men or 'snatchers' were a constant threat. There were also times when you boarded an air-conditioned bus without the benefit of air-conditioning (but still paid the premium rates, anyway) or those that still had those really uncomfortable hardwood seats from the sixties. But really, what is life without all these dangers every once in a while anyway? What I mean to say is that in the big bad third world, you're bound to run into such "inconveniences" more often that you would like, anyway, whether inside a dilapidated bus or elsewhere.

So at the onset of my bus-boarding life, I learned to take everything in stride, and accept that good things get balanced out with the bad. This went on for the next 4 years of high school, generally without much incident.

Things started to change a bit in college, during which time I got my driver's license. I spent less time at the bus stop and more borrowing my dad's car. The commute also changed, from the 15-20 minute ride to my high school, to the 30-45 minute ordeal to the university. Taking the bus now required a more deliberate effort to be early, so I preferred taking the car. Plus, driving a car to school, it was said, instantly gave you a higher status with the ladies. (Which in retrospect, didn't really work for me all those years. Crap.) Still, the bus was a viable option, a bit more inconvenient than having your own car, but still an option.

Then, as I found myself overstaying in college, came the dawn of a new era in third-world public transport, the metro rail or MRT. This elevated form of transport was far superior in delivering people from point A to point B than the buses, owing to its ability to zoom above the snarly traffic of EDSA. Travel time was slashed from 45 minutes to 20. By this time, whenever my dad decided to ground me from using his car (which was real often considering my penchant for getting home in the wee hours of the early morning drunk or already hung over), I used the MRT to go to school. Despite this, however, I still took the bus home. Sure, it took a heck of a lot longer, but the homeward commute wasn't as urgent anyway. Plus, it afforded me the luxury of time to daydream, or at least let my drunkenness pass by the time I came knocking at the door. ("Why the hell do you smell like a friggin' bar?", "Oh I sat beside a homeless dude on the bus. *hic* That must be it. *hic*") The MRT is also not without hassles, most notably it deprives me of my right to personal space (at times even breathing space) for all of those 20 minutes.

Fast forward to the present, acne's all cleared up and with no more curfews. I'm no longer using my dad's car so he doesn't get to ground me anymore. I also rarely use the bus as it's way inconvenient, having to take 3 transfers, walking in the 80% humidity of the tropics to the succeeding stations which gets me to my office 40 kilometers away.

Of course, driving on city roads in the middle of rush hour is definitely no picnic, and I've had my share of flicking the bird at one too many bus drivers. They're big, they stop a lot, and they're prone to belch out black smoke from their over-worked diesels. But do I declare that they're the source of all this traffic and pollution? Well, no. Here's why:

If I count the number of vehicles on the road, there are far fewer buses than private vehicles. Sure, they may be big and bothersome and clunky, but each holds around 40 people. Most of these private vehicles, including my own, hold only one. So it might be safe to assume that those people bitching about how evil buses are, take up an awful lot of space on the road with their big-ass SUV or underutilized cars relative to how many people they actually move.

To futher my point:

See how many people wait for buses and or other modes of public transportation? Imagine how traffic and pollution gets even worse if we give each one of them an Escalade.

*****

Sorry for whining and bitching, folks. I guess I just needed to mentally prepare myself to take the bus on a regular basis in the near future. It's not really convenient, but I don't really have much of a choice, do I?

I can hear someone at the back, saying why don't I use a bicycle. Well shut up cause I've already thought about it, you tree-hugging, fossil-fuel hating environmentalist prick! It's just not optimal for me. I'm sort of prone to sweating, and living in the tropics, where it's well over 30 degrees Celsius for most of the year with 80% humidity, means riding a bike to work for 20 minutes will give the person sitting next to me hell for the whole damn day. Besides, have you seen the size of those buses? I don't really want to get run over by them. I love 'em, but I don't wanna get to get that close to them on a flimsy little two-wheeler.

Who needs structure?

2011-01-29T01:45:00.003+08:00

I've been having a hard time thinking up things to write. This is an awful predicament for someone who actually writes about nonsense, as you can imagine. How the heck could I run out of stuff to write about when I'm free to write about anything under the sun?

Maybe I need some *gasp!* "structure".

*****

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine, about maybe setting some parameters for this here blog, you know, like a general topic or something. At the time, it seemed preposterous, it was the freedom to blab about anything and everything that gave me the idea to set up this blog in the first place, and I'm supposed to define boundaries?

But then, something (or nothing, rather) happened and I'm all out of things to write about. What the...?

It all starts with choosing what to write about, a thought comes into my head, and I start on it, then my ADD kicks in and another thought takes its place, thereby displacing any progress that was made on prior topic. I start writing about this new thing and before long I'm off blabbering about something entirely different. It's a tough process, and alcohol-aided writing doesn't seem to help me focus, either.

I've heard of this phenomenon before, or maybe it was just a quote I heard, going something like "...he who has the freedom to do anything ends up doing nothing..." or some other crap. Is this what they call a paradox or is it an oxymoron? I really can't bother myself to analyze the difference. Maybe I should have paid more attention to my language classes.

*****

Speaking of language classes, I think I remember the reason why I wasn't paying as much attention as I should have: my freshman high school english teacher was hot. This, on the part of the whole high school academe is (was?) a mistake. Year on year, hordes of high school graduates with a weak grasp of the English language manage to squeak past the bare minimum requirements and diminish the collective grammatical intellect of the population in general. Then again, better flunk English (which is only a second language in this country) than Math. Heck, my Math teachers were fugly and yet I failed in that anyway. How low could my grades have sunk further if my Math teacher was hot?

*****

Wait, what was the original topic? Oh yeah, structure. Sorry about that, damn attention span.

So this structure thing, it now seems to be a viable solution. At least if I lay down some general topic, then maybe I could have more focus and actually write something that makes some sense. I've actually went as far as listing down some topics for my future consideration. I've written them down as possible blog titles:

1. Personal Destitution 101

Where I basically write about how I manage to spend way beyond my means and yet still survive (barely). This is so not Self-help.

2. Living with laundry

Basically, this will touch on the intricacies that I have learned (and am still learning) from doing my own laundry. From reviews of different detergents to the effects of hot and cold rinsing on polyesters.

If ever I do roll out this particular blog, feel free to hunt me down whack me in the head with a 9-iron. Please?

3. The most awful and boring places on Earth

Every travel blog I've read have the words 'amazing' or 'tranquil' or 'exciting' in them. Mine's gonna have phrases such as 'rat-infested' and 'what a waste of time' and 'ugliest hookers, ever' instead.

4. Before the "thud"

Now this is part journalism and part fiction. Since I see an awful lot of roadkill in a week, the plan is to spot roadkill, stop and take a picture of it (without being roadkill, myself), try to go all CSI and shit on it and make out what their last thoughts could have been and post pictures and thoughts online.

I figure this could potentially earn me a Pulitzer. We'll see.

5. 365 days (and nights) of baby-wipes and lotion

Uhm... I guess this is pretty self-explanatory?

*****

But of course, even if I do decide to take on another blog, I would never abandon this one! I've put too much time and effort into this, besides, I'm pretty lazy that I'd doubt I'd have the energy to figure out how to make another. Also, I've tried to make one in the past but was forced to put it down before I made the move public.

*****

Wow, structure notwithstanding, who would've guessed I'd be able to add another post that's, well, barely worth publishing?

What a waste of cola...

2011-01-17T00:11:00.003+08:00

It's one of those nights, when things just don't go your way.

I slept most of the day (and early evening) away, and then bedtime comes, but I'm not sleepy, of course. I look into the refrigerator, get some ice, some cola, then turning around to get the rhum, realize that I'm all out. Crud, why did I forget to buy a bottle?

So no rhum tonight, just have to settle with Mr. Johnny Walker I guess. I drink the coke and pour in the whisky (no "e", apparently because it's Scotch). This will have to do.

"Does it really matter, which kind of alcohol you drink?"

Of course it does, silly! We're not in college anymore, that time when you had to make do with whatever your leftover lunch money will get you. (mostly cheap gin and cheap juice, I remember) However it does vary from person to person, one man's poison is another's toilet water, I guess. Me? I happen to be partial to either whisky or beer, but there are a lot of layers in between.

To explain:

Whisky/Whiskey, on the rocks, is for the quiet celebration, the kind where I sit back and think to yourself 'That was some really good porn!' or 'Gee, that was a fun batch of laundry'. I don't drink it just for kicks, that would be irresponsible and a waste of some perfectly good (and expensive) alcohol. It doesn't affect my memory as much, which makes it ideal when I want to play out the good times in my head over and over again.

Beer, on the other side of the spectrum, is the anytime, anywhere, any occasion drink of choice. Hanging out with friends? Lite beers. Watching Hazel or Sapphire dance their way through college? Pale Pilsen. Catching your alma mater get pummeled in basketball on the telly, an extra stong Red Horse, for crying out loud. Really, beer is the work horse of a working man's day.

Brandy is really special. It's supposed to be drunk raw, neat, without anything pretentious, sans the frills. Perfect for a hard day at work, or when that total bitch you were dating suddenly breaks up with you. Nice and cheap, too, just how you're feeling when you're sitting by the gutter wallowing in self-pity.

Wine is perfect for watching a chick flick on DVD. See those tall, delicate wine glasses? What else could make you feel like you're the biggest pussy in the world? Red, white, whatever, when you see me drinking wine, hand me that box of Kleenex. Damn, I feel all bloated and ugly just writing about it. It is quite useful though on a date, when you need to get in touch with your feminine side to get that 'Wow, you really get me! You're not like all those other men.' reaction. Me, I just keep handy a flask of Whisky for after those really, really, REALLY good dates.

Vodka or Gin is a really great way to get hammered. Whenever I feel all caveman and shit, this is definitely the way to go. No, I won't need juice to wash it down, thank you. Just give it to me straight and we're gonna have a good time.

Rhum/rum, usually with a 3:1 ratio of cola, is my choice when I want to just chill and listen to music, sorta like tonight. The cola sorta perks up my senses, but is tamed down by the alcohol. Of course, if I'm perked-up already, I simply opt to just shoot it straight.

"What about those mixed drinks? Like margaritas?"

Hmm, when I turn out to be gay, I'll let you know. However, I have had a taste of the stuff, I'll admit. You see sometimes, Hazel/Sapphire likes to order a batch of the stuff and lets me try them. It's kinda hard to say no when it's all for a good cause. Also, when my date is all curious with names like "Blow Job" or "Sex on the Beach", I throw out my wine and just go with the flow.

I draw the line at tequila though, I'm kinda allergic to it. By allergic, I mean after 4 shots of the stuff, I'm passed out with absolutely no memory of having a 5th shot and thereafter. I dunno, it's probably some complex chemistry, and I hate chemistry.

Hmm, my glass seems to have gone empty. Sorry guys, gotta get myself a refill.

Loan? What loans?

2011-01-13T20:40:00.004+08:00

Well, I'm bored, hence a post. Unfortunately, (for you, mostly) I've queued up an eclectic playlist on Media Player:

1. "Don't Go Away" - Oasis
2. "Teardrops On Oy Guitar" - Taylor Swift
3. "If It's Love" - Train
4. "Tiny Dancer" - Elton John
5. "Me Japanese Boy I Love You" - Burt Bacharach
6. "Nocturne No. 15 - Op. 55 No. 1 in F Minor" - Fryderyk Chopin
7. "Dig" - Incubus
8. "Mata Ng Diyos" - Wolfgang (Which kinda crept into my consciousness, thanks Nolan)

It's fairly certain now, this is going to be one of my worst, most disjointed posts ever.

*****

"Wait, is that Chopin up there?"

Yes it is. Contrary to what others think of me, I do listen to the occasional piano, sometimes even the whole orchestra. This phenomenon I can only attribute to growing up watching too many episodes of "Looney Tunes", fueled even further by my new year's adventure to Hong Kong's Disneyland. This particular piece, however, I'm pretty sure I heard on a movie or two. Maybe even some really deep drama chick flick.

*****

Was doing my groceries this afternoon, a decision made while pondering where the heck my money flew away to. Apparently, the guys over at McDonald's, KFC, Starbucks and Jollibee have been making a killing off me, which can't really be good for my financial well-being.

I did come upon a small fortune recently, which is always great. But now, I'm having some trouble deciding what to do with it. The first thing that came to my mind when I looked at the cheque was to mentally divide the sum amount by the price of a beer. That's a lot of beers. Of course, a man can't live on beer alone (which is a shame, really), so I had to set aside a portion of my fortune (that rhymes!) to some other stuff, like detergents, bar chow, a nice massage (with some extras), and Hello Panda biscuits.

First things first, though, I have to convert this little piece of paper to a lot of little pieces of paper with heads of dead presidents and heroes on them. Sadly, that's the difficult part. I hate going into banks. Everytime I go into a bank, they take my money away. These bean counters, they're the worst! First, they make you take a number and sit there, with your hard earned money in your hand, waiting for some scum to come in, hold the bank up and take your money. This goes on for a long time, half an hour in some cases, even longer on busy days. Then, just when you're sure that the fellow in the demin jacket beside you has a gun in his pants, the teller calls out your number and takes your money anyway.

Sure sometimes they give you back your money, but it always feels lighter, doesn't it? You know that someone's been having their way with your money, using it however they please, wiping their asses with it. Then when you come begging to get it back from them, you have to line up all over again and smile when they give what's rightfully yours. It's like lending out your pristine condition Playboy magazine with Erika Eleniak on the cover to a buddy of yours in high school and getting it back a year later looking like some sorry piece of soggy toilet paper.

*****

Eventually, I have to go to a bank, though. I've decided to open another account with another bank and use this for my future savings. So I'm keeping half of my small fortune in there, while I spend the other half on totally useless things and frivolous encounters.

"Don't you have loans and stuff?"

Of course I do, I also have a short attention span, which conveniently lets me forget this fact all too easily. Thanks for reminding me.

Loans? What loans?

Kidding of course (just in case Archie is reading this). A portion of the money goes to charity, namely the guys over at Citigroup (which has fallen on bad times, I hear). Quite a large portion, actually. Which sucks.

*****

Finally, I got that Starbucks planner. I intend to use it this year, as everyone else I know already has one. (Plus, it's past Christmas, so I'm not feeling all gift-giving-like anymore) Was surprised that it was a damn heavy thing, I mean, who the heck wants to lug around a notebook that weighs as much as an encyclopedia? Can't they just give out a Starbucks PDA or something? I'm sure I've sunk enough dough in that place to buy a dozen of those, would it hurt them to give a little back?

Anyway, I filled out the blank space for my name, my home number, but was at a loss what to put down as my mobile number. You see, my current mobile phone belongs to the company I currently work for, which I won't be working for in less than a month's time. And since I don't have my own mobile phone, I don't have anything to jot down there, do I? The good news, though, is that my future employer has promised to give me a new mobile phone, which is great. In the meantime, though, what do I do?

Say I meet a hot girl, and we exchange numbers. Handing out my home number seems so Neanderthal these days, right?

"Wow a landline? How retro!" Yeah baby, now if you'll come back with me to my Delorean, maybe we can still catch Doogie Howser on television! (Yeah Doogie Howser, Neil Patrick Harris, you know, Barney Stintson of How I Met Your Mother? No? Doesn't ring any bells? How old are you again?)

Dream on

2011-01-10T22:19:00.002+08:00

A million thoughts ran through my mind whilst sipping my usual americano a few hours ago. Okay, a million is quite an overstatement, I can't even count that high, let's pare it down to a couple of thousand (which is still kinda doubtful anyway given my short attention span).

So... a couple of thousand thoughts ran through my mind some hours ago, this specie of separation anxiety is getting to me with my impending change of workplace. I can't help thinking of all the things I'm going to leave behind, the people, the building I helped construct (well, not literally), the lunches I stole, that stupid desk of mine with the squeaky drawer, the loose screw in my office chair that keeps poking my butt, Kermit that clunky green car which has taken me almost everywhere. I guess I'm gonna miss almost everything in that place, even staring at my boss' nose hairs while he's snoozing through my weekly report. I guess 8 years have a way of tatooing themselves on you.

28 more days till my resignations comes into effect, and I'm already having cold feet about leaving.

You try to push those thoughts away, but then fear rears its ugly head. What if I fail miserably at my new job? What if I don't like it? What if everyone there's a snooty bastard? What if they frown upon people who enjoy stealing lunches? What if the office coffee is (gasp!) decaf?

I call up someone I knew who used to work for my future employers, try to get some insights into what lay ahead of me. "Really, you're gonna work for them? I hope you're all healthy and shit, it's a whole new level of stress in there!" Crap, not exactly the encouraging words I was looking for. "But the pay's definitely top rate." There, that's better.

Wait, what the heck's happened to me? Have I become a slave to the almighty peso? Am I a sell-out? Did I just sign my soul over to the capitalist devil out to fuel my greed and strange need for frothy beers and cappuccinos (which essentially leads you straight to hell, I've been told)? Just a few years ago, I was a proud citizen working for a local company waging the quixotic war and now look at me, counting beans and thinking of getting myself my first dark gray suit. Oh no!

I wonder, is it too late? Could I still back away from the deal?

Of course I could. But I know I won't. Not because I'm not nationalistic, but because this is a means to a greater good, to that boyhood dream...

I had a dream, and in that dream I'm at a bar, surrounded by hundreds of hot, scantily clad bimbos, waiting for their turn to feed me grapes and stuff!

I had a dream, and in that dream all the faucets, the shower, heck even the toilet was overflowing with draft beer!

I had a dream, and in that dream it was raining pizzas and burgers and lechon and nachos and marshmallows and ice cream and fishballs!

I had a dream, and in that dream I was naked, and waiting for the light to turn green, and everyone at the intersection was staring at me, and pointing at my shriveled little pee-pee, which kinda sucked.

If people call me a sell out, so be it. If people jeer and call me a traitor and a fool, so be it. If people look down upon me and think that I've let everyone down, so be it. If hot women tempt me and do all sorts of sensual things to me because I've now got all this money and shit, then so be it. In the end, I'll still be the same boy who had a dream, and who did something rather than do nothing for the sake of that dream. '... I faced it all, and I stood tall, and did it.... My Way!'

Breaking a heart

2011-01-07T23:12:00.005+08:00

Whoa... no no no, don't get the title wrong, this isn't one of those "emo" posts, I swear! Come back!

I swear, really!

Whew! I guess I almost lost you there. This is a different kind of heart-breaking. It isn't the typical mushy "...These foolish games are tearing me apart, And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart..." crap that Jewel describes in her song. This is more of the "I know it was you, Fredo. You broke my heart. YOU BROKE MY HEART!" kinda deal. Scary, I know.

*****

You see, this morning, I finally did it. I quit my job.

You heard me.

After weeks and months of soul-searching, computing, analysis and coin-tossing, I decided that the right opportunity had come along and I was a fool not to take it. I had a job offer sitting on my lap from another company, with all the goodies that I had asked Santa for, and the prospect of a brighter career ahead.

Out of respect, I called the big boss I was working for the past 8 years on his mobile phone. He sounded like he was at the golf course, which may be the best time to tell him.

"Hi sir, finishing up your game?"
"Hi Hap! Still on the front 9 and doing great. What's up?" Hmm, could I possibly ruin the back 9 with the news? Maybe now's not the time to tell him?
"I've come to a decision, sir."
"Oh really? I hope you're staying with us, Hap. I believe our counter-offer is impressive, don't you think?" Gulp.
"Uh, yes sir. Mighty impressive. However..."
"Uh oh."
"...I'm inclined to take the other offer, sir."
"That just breaks my heart, Hap."

Suddenly, I had my mobile phone in an icy death grip, was the slobbering kiss-of-death next?

*****

In my head, everything seemed eerily quiet. Had word gotten out already? Here I was, exposed and vulnerable inside the office. Everyone being nice to me, as they do anyone whose days were numbered, probably. I could only guess, of course, no one has ever went against "the family" and lived to tell about it, to my memory. 30 more days of this before I'm a free man, alive and free, hopefully.

Had I made the right decision? I was beginning to question the wisdom of my choice. (Which happens all too often, by the way)

"Traitor!" The word echoed loudly in my head, but it seems only I heard it. Everyone was scurrying around, minding their own business, unmindful of me.

Then, the boss' son comes up to me. "I heard, Hap. That's just too bad."

Wait, what? Too bad how, exactly? Too bad I was leaving the family or something else, something more... permanent? I turn around, half-expecting Luca behind me with a leather gloves and a wire, or Furio with a wooden bat. Nothing there, for now.

How the heck did I get into this mess anyway? Is it my obsession with being "made"? But after 8 years of unquestioned loyalty to the family, to the Corleones and Sopranos, was I now being perceived as a threat?! Well, it's all my fault, I guess. I should've expected this to happen. Male lions, banished from the pride, can only get back into one by winning a challenge against the alpha and devouring their young. I had mistakenly identified diplomacy as a strength rather than a weakness.

Is it too late to back out? Could I say sorry and get things back to the way they were? History says otherwise, though. Fredo thought he was family again, until he went fishing and became fish food. Same for Pussy. Yeah, there's no point in turning back now, I've chosen my side and must stick by it, man up.

Note to self: Leave the cannoli.

Coco the Psycho Coffee Maker

2011-01-05T00:19:00.004+08:00

Everything starts out great, doesn't it? Until it isn't. Then it all becomes horrendous, a downward spiral of compromises and excuses and that desperate search for a silver lining. And yet, time and again, we almost certainly allow ourselves to blindly fall into the same old trap. And there's never any getting used to it.

You probably, no, certainly have no idea what the heck I'm blabbing about over here, huh? As vague as the preceding paragraph may be, it is, I do declare, an all encompassing truth.

Take for example the issue with weight. Everyone has one, I presume. No one is really that comfortable with their body. Then, just when you're on the cusp of being happy with yourself, you suddenly fall off the wagon and indulge. Then it's all downhill from there.

My friends, welcome to the post-holiday blues!

*****

Right now I should be fast asleep. An early day awaits, lots of things to do, not a lot of time to spare. And yet, here I am, in front of my crappy desktop, filling out a post. Why do I do this? I have no idea. Suddenly the urge to tap tap tap on the keys hits me, then when I do, nothing comes to mind, which in no way stops the urge. It's like a curse of sorts, really. This happens to me a lot. At certain periods in my life, I owned a guitar. And then out of nowhere, I suddenly feel the it's existence, and long to play a tune. I take it out and run my fingers through the fretboard, and then my mind goes blank.

Maybe I've some trouble maintaining focus or something?

The real tragedy is, just when I start to lose focus, and decide to stuff the guitar back in its case, I instantly regain an interest in it. Regret sets in, the unforgiving and insatiable bitch that it is.

*****

Whilst on the subject of personal peeves, it might be a good time to introduce you to my psychotic coffee maker. This small machine has the ability to predict the future, as it does every morning. It's one of those cheapo drip coffee makers, a gift from Time Magazine for my having taken out a subscription. I call it Coco, though I doubt if it even cares for a name.

Each morning, I wake up and make coffee with Coco, only I'm not really making coffee, but trying to catch a glimpse of what kind of day awaits me. On really good days, it works perfectly, churning out a perfect cup of joe that gives me the right amount of perkiness. Then there are so-so days, wherein Coco makes weird noises, sounding like a vulture regurgitating a full meal of roadkill for its vulture-chicks. On these days I could hardly keep myself awake at work, I just go through the motions and put everything off for the next day. On days when the world hits you squarely in the face with a dozen or so curveballs, Coco doesn't make coffee at all. It just huffs and puffs smoke and kills off any interest in breakfast. That's when I know I'd be better off calling in sick and just feel miserable.

Obviously, it could just be the other way around. Maybe Coco, instead of predicting the future, is actually shaping it up for me. In the grand scheme of things, Coco is the puppeteer, pulling all of my strings, telling me what to do.

Now, if that were the case, that Coco is pre-conditioning me each morning according to its whims and follies, then I'm the bigger fool for letting myself be conned by it.

But the problem is, what do I do about it? Do I get another, more stable coffee maker? A French press, perhaps? I can't be sure, what if the new coffee maker is a bigger nut that Coco is? I'd be doomed for sure. So, for the time being, I'm empowering Coco to have its way with me. I'm just too lazy to fight it.

Another year of the same crap?

2011-01-03T23:45:00.004+08:00

So I just came back from my annual new year's trip. This time to another country. Really weird considering that I never thought I'd ever work up enough energy (or money) to actually do it. But well, this is a new decade, after all. And with it, new things to try out. Yes, this is that stage of my life wherein I resolve to try new stuff out and actually have goals and resolutions.

But what things? I have no idea yet, which makes it all the more exciting, don't you think? There are some things that are already lined up in the short term, though, which actually comprise most of the year's resolutions. If you'd like to know what they are, I've listed them down for you:

1. Travel to a new country

Check. I went to China (Hong Kong, actually, but as I understand it, it is already a part of China) for new year's. Then in a couple of months, I'm going to Taiwan, which I'm not sure could be categorized as a new country. But I've booked a flight there anyway, despite not having enough money to do anything but sit my ass on the airport, waiting for the next flight home. Hopefully I can muster enough funds to actually step into a 7-11 and buy something, maybe a bottle of water and a club sandwich. I'm gonna bring a stick of gum anyway in case things don't work out financially.

2. Get a new job

Well, that's actually also in the works. As I understand it, I've already been promised a job offer in another company. When that offer will actually come, that is the current question. Will the offer be acceptable to myself? I've no idea until I actually see it. But, well, you get the idea.

3. 30 pounds

Of what? Of myself. That's how much I need to lose to be able to wear that darn t-shirt I bought myself while in China. Ambitious, ain't it? I figure that itself should keep me busy for the next 6 months or so. But what if I fail? Does a perfectly functional t-shirt go to waste? Of course not. I've gotten the number of a great tailor who could make the appropriate alterations to the shirt so I can fit myself into it. I'll let you know how it goes in 6 months.

4. Kill off all the cockroaches in my house

Now this is probably the toughest one yet. Killing off a species that has outlived almost everyone else on the planet in a year's time. Of course, an alternative statement would be "Keep the cockroaches out of the house", obviously more realistic. The plan involves a heck of a lot of plaster and tape, and finding out where the heck these darn insects are coming from. Then I'm gonna get me a hamster and train it to hunt down the ones that make it past the first line of defense.

If all else fails, I'm gonna just move the heck out of the house and into a nice little condo high up in the stratosphere. I figure anything above the 20th floor should be safe enough. If any cockroach can flap his little wings that high up, they should be too tired to pose any serious threat to Mooky the cockroach eating hamster.

5. Kill something for food

Now this may seem a bit morbid, but don't worry, I'm planning to start slow. I've been thinking of planting tomatoes at home, and maybe carrots. After I've been able to successfully "hunt" and "slaughter" these down, then I can move on to larger prey, such as watermelons or a bitter gourd. I might need to enlist Mooky's help with these, so I guess I'd have to share some with him. But eventually, I should be able to move up the food chain until I reach the point when I'm "stalking" a chicken.

You know what, I just realized that these 5 should be enough for a year. Yeah, any more and I doubt I'd find the time to sit around and watch television all day. Anyway, wish me luck!

Riding the backseat of a black Mercedes Benz

2010-12-09T00:28:00.006+08:00

It's almost 2am, and I just dove into bed, eagerly anticipating part 2 of that dream wherein me and Kate Beckinsale had just gotten into a big fight. Then my phone rings, crap. Who the heck could it be at this late (or is 'this early') time? Oh, it's a friend of mine. Ignoring the call was my first thought, but then my conscience hit me on the head with a rubber mallet.

"Yeah?"
"Could you pick me up?", she slurs.
"Don't you have a car?"
"Yeah, but I'm too drunk." 10 minutes later, I'm hailing a cab.

I got there, my friend, being propped up by her equally drunk boss, was beside her car while she fumbled through her purse for the keys. As soon as she saw me, she throws the purse in my face, commanding me to fetch her keys. I dive into the bag, fingers sorting through wallets, beauty products and whatever the heck was in that bag. No keys.

"But it's there!" She screams.
"Uhm, no it's not."
"Where is it?!" I was trying to decipher if the question was rhetorical, when her boss sets me aside and hands me a set of keys.
"Here they are, but they don't seem to work", big boss man states matter-of-factly. I look at the keys, and no wonder they aren't of any assistance, they're house keys. "You give it a try." He slurs.
"These aren't car keys."
"But they her keys." Yeah, I know they're her keys, unless you also happen to have the same Hello Kitty keychain. "C'mon, try them." I feign an effort, but before I fake putting in the second key, he snatches the set from my hands and tries each one of the 8 keys himself. "It's gotta be one of these keys." Good luck, Bub.

While they were making a scene with the wrong set of keys, I search the grounds for the right set. I ask the parking staff it they've seen it, as well as the waiters at the watering hole they've just been to. No luck.

"I'll take her home in my car." Big boss man bellows when I got back to them.
"Ok." I say, mentally making inventory of how much change I have for cab fare.
"But I can't find the keys of my car! I can't go home!" She protests. Tragically, this would've made such an entertaining scene, watching 2 drunk people talk, if I were not friends with either of them.
"Huh? Where are your keys?" The boss asks. This is gonna be a long night, isn't it?

Eventually, it was decided by these two drunkards that boss man will take drunken friend home. It was also decided that they would drop me off at my house as well. This was swell, if they both weren't so damn drunk. I offer to drive, but refused. I offer again, citing extreme drunkenness on both their parts, but was refused again. Then we get to his car and I didn't offer to drive again. It was a bad-ass Mercedes Benz CLK black coupe, and you simply don't drive another man's penis extension, no matter what the situation.

"You get in the back, I don't wanna sit in the back." my friend slurs. I take a peek at the back seat, what passed for a back seat anyway. This car was seemingly intended to seat only 2 people up front, a despicably rich old dude and a hot young chick. The back seat was a cleverly disguised, Italian leather-appointed storage space, or a subtle hint to tell any other passenger that he wasn't welcome.

"Maybe I'll just take a cab..."
"No! We'll bring you home." Crap.

I cramp myself in the backseat while they got in, enjoying the spacious legroom that this German import afforded. Doors close, and the boss man puts the thing in drive. The car crawls forward, which was a bad thing considering that the driveway was to the rear of the car.

"Sir, we should be in reverse. SIR, REVERSE!" He finally gets it, after hitting the 6 foot tall signpost in front of the car.
"Oh, that was drive." No shit, Einstein! Did I mention that this was going to be a long night?

The whole scenario was just cruel, me sitting behind a drunk driver, without even having the good sense to be drunk as well, if only to numb the impact of any impending wreck. The short 2 kilometer drive was horrendous, he was either flooring it or hitting the brakes. I could feel my nuts making their way to my throat each time the wheels screeched to a halt or spun forward. I was hoarse screaming directions for my dear life. (Stop light's red! No, don't go over the curb! Don't hit the homeless guy! Slow down on the intersection, for the love of God!!!) As soon as we got to my building, I jumped out and gave thanks to the gods. As I lean in to buss a goodbye to my friend, she says "Hey, follow me to my house, please?".

On one hand, this may be construed as an invitation to do any number of naughty things. Things that would totally justify standing up Kate Beckinsale back in dreamland. But could it? Was this alcohol talking? Has the cosmos finally realized its crimes against my person and are handing me my share nirvana? Would my right-handedness no longer be painfully apparent in the morning?

"Sure." I answer as cooly as I possibly can. As soon as the black CLK drove off, I jumped into my clunky Honda (this 'clunkiness' being apparent after my short ride in the CLK) and make my way over to her place in record time.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Maybe I can put it off for 5 more minutes...

2010-12-06T01:33:00.006+08:00

Whoa... it's December already? I still can't get over how this month just all of a sudden crept up on me. Well, guess I should accept this peculiar fact, and learn to live with it.

*****

Took a jog around my old alma mater tonight, a ritual I had forsaken too many times, of late. I really should pay more attention to my weight, what with the holidays just around the corner. The last thing I need is to explode into a ball of lard by New Year's and start off 2011 with another battle of the bulge.

I started off pretty ambitiously, promising myself 5 laps around the 2.2 kilometer academic oval. Then, reality set in, heavily on my ankles. This wasn't a good sign. I resigned myself to only 3 laps, of brisk walking. I figure I need to lose 10 pounds before I start doing any actual jogging. Could I shave it off in a week? Hmm, that shouldn't be too difficult, seeing that I'm pretty much out of cash. No more fastfood breakfast and lunches from now on, I guess.

*****

Obviously, I haven't been writing much lately. Am I too busy? In a way, yeah. I'm too busy sitting on my ass, doing nothing.

But wait, can't I sit on my ass while writing? Yeah, writing stuff does usually imply that I'm sitting down, I'll admit. But I can't write and do nothing both at the same time, can I? No, if there's one thing that nobody can do while doing something, anything, it's doing nothing. The only one thing that you can't multi-task, I guess.

So why am I doing a lot of nothing, lately? Well for starters, traffic has been getting to me. On more than one occasion, I've been stuck over 3 hours in it. This isn't good for my sanity. As such, these days I choose to do nothing while I wait for the usual rush hour traffic to subside to more bearable levels. So far, it's working. I'm still sane, though a lot lazier. And I've been getting better at being lazy that it's been affecting my work and, to some extent, my social life.

*****

Have I told you that as I'm writing this, I'm procrastinating on doing a powerpoint presentation? In a few hours, I've got this big deal meeting with a potential client who flew in all the way from the States to make the rounds with potential partners. Guess how many slides I've finished... nada. My boss is gonna love me, for sure.

Don't worry, I've no intention of being fired later. As soon as I'm finished with this senseless monologue of mine, I'm seriously going to get started. Let's see, a 15 minute presentation should amount to something like 10 slides or so... yeah, I think I'll have enough time, if I don't sleep tonight, that is. If I want to make a really good presentation with all the animation and research and pictures, I'd need a couple of days or so. But since my goal is to simply do enough not to get fired, it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours.

Ironically enough, I suggested we prepare this presentation, just to make things more fun for our guests. How was I to know that I would be tasked in making one? Obviously, I hadn't thought my suggestion through, which is really the story of my life. If you need ideas that are half thought-out and borderline whimsical, I'm the guy to turn to. It's a wonder how my mental vomit is suddenly picked up as a productive thought.

*****

Well, I guess I've really got to make that presentation. Let me just take in a "5-minute" nap... zzz.

One more reason I'm going to hell

2010-11-23T23:12:00.003+08:00

Yesterday was a blast! The 32 kilometer drive from the office was a breeze, taking only 20 minutes or so, cruising along the expressway. Then, the "blast" ended, and I got stuck in bumper to bumper traffic for the next 4 kilometers, for the whole of 3 hours. I tell you, it wasn't fun.

At first I thought, Hey, I'm close enough, what's a little crawl through the city? Then the first 30 minutes pass (or 200 meters, whichever you prefer), and I'm drowning in the irony of it all. I roll down my window and light up. After the first few puffs, the sky opened up and the rain fell, so much for a cigarette break.

Finally, I see the on-ramp to the main avenue which was the shortest distance to home. There should have been relief, this was after all a 5-lane highway, right? Of course, nothing was going to be easy, as the usually 2 lane on-ramp was suddenly transformed into a 3-lane parking lot. So I go the longer route, taking on an extra 3 kilometers, which took me another couple of hours to navigate.

Needless to say, the minute I got home, the bottle of whisky looked mighty fine.

*****

As proof of my being a self-absorbed jackass, I texted a friend of mine about my miserable 3-hour ordeal that night, and when I learned that my friend was also stuck in traffic for the same amount of time through the same distance, I felt all the more bitter about it. No, this wasn't empathy, this was a case of feeling miserable for not being "the guy" who had the unique experience of suffering great odds and made it.

A bit vague? Well, let me put it this way, I'm the guy who would have felt miserable for not being the only hero honored with the Purple Heart. Yes, that is just how much of a sick, attention-seeking prick I am.

Here's how my twisted mind thought things would go: I'd text about what horrible injustices had just been done on my person by this evil, evil world, and my friend would feel terrible about it and heap praises upon me for putting up such a valiant fight and succeeding in the end. Facebook status updates would be put up on my behalf, the poets would draw inspiration from my victorious march into battle, and editorials would be written demanding that justice be given me for having to endure all this pain and suffering. They'd probably even rename the North Star for me, or maybe the Moon? Sailors from all across the oceans would look up in the sky and be guided by my name. Yes, all that ran through my psychotic little head as I fingered in that fateful text message.

Now that's vanity for you.

A day in my non-working work trip

2010-11-19T22:44:00.003+08:00

So here I am, at the summer capital, the city atop a plateau, freezing my nuts off in my hotel room. I'm supposed to be working, but whenever I'm here, I just lose it and go into vacation mode. I know, I should really be earning my keep especially since the company is paying for all my expenses while I'm here, but I just can't bring myself to function.

One thing that I've been doing plenty of since I got here, though, is watching the television. They've got the Discovery Channel, the one channel that has got me glued for hours on my ass while I'm watching it. (Of course, if there were a Playboy Channel here, then that would be an entirely different story) I've just watched an hour long special on World War 2 in Europe, and then another full hour on the Pacific Theater. After that, the guys from Mythbusters come along and before I know it, I missed a whole networking affair that I'm supposed to tag along to.

I wonder what my boss will say when and if he finds out?

*****

It's a Friday night, I'm alone in a city teeming with bars and cheap beer, I've got a hotel room all to myself, and yet, I'm here writing this blog. Why? From my hotel room window, I can count 8 bars, in varying levels of sleaziness/classiness and my pick of alternative, pop, house, r&b, country (think John Denver) or classical music. (Classical is how I define the works of Elton John, Barry Manilow, Air Supply, et al)

Well, my first excuse is that I'm trying to detox myself from cigarettes and alcohol. I've only had like 5 sticks of cigarettes for the day and only 2 bottles of beer since Wednesday. Plus, those two bottles were half-heartedly drank because they were offered to me by my boss, a 73 year old man who could probably out-drink me. The second excuse is that the last time I went out drinking all by myself in this city, I ended up painting the town red with another dude who I had sort of picked up in a bar. Not gonna happen again, I hope. My last excuse, which is my least favorite, really, is that I need to lose a few dozen pounds.

*****

This afternoon, after having watched too much television and realizing that I missed out on the cocktail party at the country club, I decided to don my running shoes and go for a walk. I didn't really know where I wanted to go, but thought that I just needed to get out of my hotel room for an hour or two.

It started out nicely, there's a little downward slope from the hotel to the park, which was a breeze. Then I tracked the jeepneys to the flea market and decided to take a look-see there. The whole building was occupied by these stalls of second hand or knock-off bags, shoes, jackets, shirts and various other stuff. I went around the market, then on to the second floor, then to the third, and was surprised that there was even a fourth floor! Of course, by the time I went up the third floor I had already decided that there was no way the city engineer would declare this building to be structurally sound and safe so I dared not go up another step.

So I went out and thought of going up the main avenue of the city.

Did I mention that the city was built on top of a mountain, and that all roads were either going up or down... steeply?

So I went up the main avenue, and found myself cramping up midway. This was just how badly out of shape I was. I tried to walk it off briskly, but it was really tightening up uncomfortably now that I had to stop and stretch out. This was when I realized that I had walked some distance and was now sweating. I had to make a decision, whether to go back or continue on to some random destination. I figured I might as well check out the mall, which was maybe a quarter of a kilometer ahead.

I limped up the slope and finally made it to the mall's entrance, where I felt the irony of craving for an ice cream when in the midst of the cool mountain air and while consciously trying to get my weight down. So I didn't get a cone, nor did I buy a smoothie which was the next best thing. I did grudgingly buy some bottled water and lit a cigarette.

*****

The walk back to the hotel was quite surprising, now that I was finally able to sort of gauge how far I walked. It was probably a good 12 kilometers to and fro, not bad for an afternoon walk, without the ice cream. Of course, as soon as I got into my hotel room, I quickly slid into the familiar grooves on the bed and lovingly handled the remote control.

Some days, you just wish would never end.

Fade to Black

2010-11-08T10:47:00.004+08:00

Who remembers the movie "Airheads"?

*****

I was scanning through the channels when the news came on, reporting that the end was nigh for DWNU-107, "The home of Nu Rock". That's just sad. A flurry of flashbacks suddenly swept over me, the earliest of which was being pressured by a neighborhood friend to listen to this rock and roll station because they were going to play some new wave music. Not really being much of a fan of rock music back then, (wow, the term 'rock and roll' just seems awkward, doesn't it?) I dismissed it as some trivial matter that was just there, in existence, with nothing to do with me.

Back then, I was listening to Elton John, Barry Manilow, Air Supply and the likes. Gay, I know. I was like 10, gimme a break.

Then, I discovered Nirvana. You know, Cobain and the other two guys. I could proudly say that I knew of them before anyone else in the country. This, I was fairly certain of because I was probably the only 14 year old who looked forward to getting his geeky hands on a copy of Newsweek magazine. There was this article, about a band in Seattle who was making a lot of noise (literally) and taking over the airwaves in American colleges and very possibly, drug dens. They even featured a photo of their album cover, a baby swimming toward a dollar bill. Cute. I wondered how they sounded like?

I was to know just under a year later, when I chanced on NU107 and serendipitously heard "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and freaked out our dog in the process. This led to my awareness of this angry new genre, something very different from Manilow, Introvoys, and a slew of bubblegum pop music and shoulder-pad clad boys that had been a staple of my sister's collection. I had found myself soaking in all this new music, provided by NU107 all day, and even back-tracked to acts like Metallica, Megadeth, Guns and Roses, Rage against the Machine, Skid Row, Led Zeppelin and ultimately the Beatles. Fights erupted, when my sister found that her precious Spandau Ballet albums had been recorded over with this "noise", directly laid down from the station's playlist. I'm pretty sure I was not the only kid who braved calling the station to request an Ugly Kid Joe song then patiently waited, with one finger on the record button, for them to play it 12 songs later so he could record it, complete with the DJ's intro and outro.

College came, and that particular station became some sort of anthem. There was this new found freedom, after all. To go to parties, get drunk until you got sick, skip class, smoke pot, hit on girls (which rarely went anywhere, though), and live life to the fullest. This was the time of our lives, and we all wanted to think that we were different, that we knew the secret to life, and that we were invincible. Wasn't this what rock music was all about? Going against the grain, being your own person, questioning the norm and rising above all those who listened to losers like the Backstreet Boys, N'sync and Westlife? NU107 wouldn't have any of these wimps, and neither were we. (Uhm, okay, so I did personally enjoy some of these wimpy songs as well. They're catchy, yeah?)

Then I hit the brick wall known as the real world, when the parents were no longer obligated to finance my penchant for alcohol, cigarettes, loose women, Top 40 t-shirts and acid washed jeans. I grudgingly took a job at minimum wage, and kept blaming "the man" for all my troubles. I went home to my tiny apartment, and found comfort in instant noodles and the words of the great philosophers: Coldplay, Parokya ni Edgar and Incubus at the temple of NU107. I was now part of the working class, struggling to survive and yearning for justice. Starbucks was a capitalist device to rid us of our birthright to cheap, honest coffee, and Apple was out to create mindless zombies with their iPods and other shiny gizmos.

Years pass, and I'm wearing leather shoes and chinos. Traffic is bad, so I pull over to a Starbucks to pass the time. I pull out my smartphone and check the news to see how far traffic is backed up. Then I hear the familiar call letters on the radio, it's NU107! I slouch further, relaxing while the aroma of a rich Amerikano wafts in the air. Wait, this song is familiar, it's one of those old Elton John and Barry Manilow songs from yore... only with harder riffs and a deeper bass. Then I realize, it's an "emo" song, being played by the "Home of Nu Rock". Then it's followed by another, and another, until I'm pretty sure the vocalist should have somehow killed himself already with all this tragedy.

Back in "the day", rock songs were about standing up to authority, sex, the odyssey of a hard life, poverty and injustice, and loads of sex. Now, some punk bawls and gouges his eyes out because his girlfriend didn't text him when she got home. Tsk tsk tsk. (Inside joke there, sorry dude, just couldn't resist! hehe) Compared to these guys, the Backstreet Boys looked pretty badass.

But who am I to pass judgement? I've sold out, and hardly listen to the radio these days. I'm back to playing Burt Bacharach and other standards, leaving all that rage and anger behind. Heck, I'd even go watch a Britney Spears or Kylie Minogue concert if they ever do come here, (not for the music, though) and I can sit through an episode of Glee! without having to squirm once. So I guess if I've changed, then the "Home of Nu Rock" would, too.

*****

As I was driving to work today, I switched the radio to Channel 1 (yes, it has always been the first option when I do turn on the radio) out of curiosity. Faint static, all that's left of an era. Fade to black...

Is the sky falling?

2010-11-08T01:02:00.003+08:00

Lately, there's this feeling of impending doom hanging over my head. Have you ever had that feeling? I mean, there's this pretty heavy chip on your shoulder but you can't put a finger on what it is, only that the shit is about ready to hit the fan anytime soon?

Right now, I'm officially attributing this ominous feeling to the "ber-months". There's just this inclination to make these times of the year the annual highlight that it actually gnaws at your being, pressuring you to make the most out of it. Don't get me wrong, it could very well be the case, if you're 8. The thought of your relatives handing you those big shiny coins (which are of no value at this day and age, by the way)and the adrenalin rush thinking about all those presents and toys you're about to get. But at this age, what's all the fuss about?

Then again, maybe it isn't about the holidays at all. Perhaps it's simply a case of bitterness.

What's to be bitter about, you ask? Well, recently I've installed this rad game in my PC. It works great, and I love it, but it keeps dying on me, the computer, not the game. My apartment's been having some electrical surges for a long time now, only this month, it seems to be getting way worse. It actually fluctuates so intensely that my computer reboots itself and all the lights go out for a second or two. That kind of intensity hasn't happened in the past, which makes me worried about the state of my electrical circuits for one, but more importantly, it's pretty frustrating when you have to save your game every 2 minutes.

Geeky huh?

*****

Also lately, I've been thinking about getting into shape. Thinking about it, being the operative word, I haven't quite gotten around to doing anything about it. Things just keep getting in the way, like pizza and burgers and all sorts of sodium-filled, fatty, greasy food. The nicotine sticks aren't helping either. I'm all thinking about going for a jog when I get this urge to light up, so I do, and the next thing I know I'm reaching out for the whisky and plopping myself in front of this computer or the idiot box. It gets worse when there's something interesting on the boob tube, then the thought of breaking a sweat seems like a distant memory, almost a laughable suggestion by the few healthy cells I've left.

*****

So my sister in Taipei has extended an invitation for me to crash over at her place if I'm indeed going there. This saves me a big pile of money for a trip there, money better spent in pursuit of cool electronic doodads which I hear are abundant and cheap in that city. So here I am, booked and scheduling an appointment at the embassy for a tourist visa.

If you'd recall, I'm scheduled for a trip to Hong Kong for the new year festivities. Then a month after, I'm set for another trip overseas. This is uncanny, as I've never even thought of getting a passport until 6 months ago. I wonder if 2011 will be the year of my attempt at circumnavigating the globe? Ok ok, I do realize that Hong Kong and Taipei are relatively within spitting distance when you say "circumnavigating the globe". Both trips don't even constitute a change in time zones! But you know, the farthest journey starts out with just one step, so I'm saying I'm on my way to actually going places.

*****

Before you go on with your oohs and aahs... may I just say that I'm terrified of going out of the country. There's just this nagging feeling that I'm bound to make a mess of things and I might end up finding the bread crumbs all pecked away by crows. There's this special on National Geographic about being imprisoned abroad and it definitely isn't something that I should be watching when I'm about to go crossing borders for the first time in my life.

And another thing that's been on my mind, what the heck do I wear? Living in the tropics, all I've got is rain gear, at best. I've absolutely nothing for temperatures below 20 degrees Celsius, and traveling during winter might not bode well for me. I'm afraid of freezing to death, and then there's also the fear of bringing too much insulation. Fortunately, I've an opportunity to buy myself some really cheap pre-owned winter coats when I go up to Baguio in two weeks. I might as well snag myself some boots (with the fur) and a nice warm jacket. I wonder if ear muffs and gloves are necessary?

The universe is against me

2010-11-01T16:06:00.003+08:00

It's almost an hour before I go out for a walk. Yes, walk. Sounds like something you take your dog out for on a lazy Monday afternoon, only during my walk, no one has to pick up after myself. This is the walk of a man who knows he's drunk too much alcohol and inhaled an awful lot of tar and nicotine. A feeble attempt to at least salvage an ounce of health.

Of course, I thought eating junk food and helping myself to some cigarettes before my walk is called for. Stupid, I know.

*****

My walking buddy hasn't called or texted me yet if indeed, the walk is on. Maybe he's still asleep, after all he did consume as much alcohol and nicotine as I had this weekend. Or maybe he's just too lazy to. I know I would. I'm secretly hoping that he'd call the whole thing off, so he'd bear the guilt of reneging on our health deal. Then I could open a bottle of scotch and buy another half-pack of ciggies.

*****

Hmm, in a serendipitous twist of fate, it rains. Surely this is a sign from on high that it's okay to cancel the walk. Somehow, it's all going to be okay so just lie down on the soft sofa, watch the idiot box and relax. There's nothing like the pitter-patter of raindrops to lull myself to sleep, and the sweet smell of the earth rises and blends in with the cool gentle breeze.

I'm pretty certain as to the walk's non-existence that I lay down in bed and snooze.

*****

Now I'm all eaten up and guilty, because I promised myself a stupid walk and I couldn't keep it. I didn't even ask myself to jog because I know it'd be harder to keep, but back out from a walk? This is just pathetic, how lower could I possibly go?

And then I go call delivery. I guess it does go worse.

Well at least go for something healthy and all that, how about a salad? On the other hand, I'll bet it'll be all soggy and gooey by the time it gets here. Burgers? Pizza? Noodles? There just isn't enough healthy choices around here. Maybe I should just make myself some soup? However, I just realized how much preservative there must be in a pack of instant soup.

And in a stalemate, I text my sister to rustle me up some grub from the convenience store at the corner. She should be on her way home in an hour or so, might as well ask her to get a hotdog sandwich, hmm, maybe some dimsum while she's at it? That'd just be great with instant noodle soup.

Wait, why don't I walk over to the 7-11 myself? That's sort of a walk, all 50 paces of it, isn't it? Then I could also get my fill, right? It's just perfect, and a great way to multi-task! I'm just so smart!

*****

If you guessed that I still didn't move, you'd be correct. I was going to, even made an effort to change my moth-eaten shirt, but the laws of inertia are just too hard to overcome, that's just how the laws of physics work. Who am I to go against the universe, right? So I texted my sister to just bring my food on her way back from work. And here I am, still in front of the computer, browsing through the fantastic collection they keep over at youporn.

5 (or 6) things

2010-10-25T15:23:00.004+08:00

About 6 months ago, my boss gave me a pep talk. The kind wherein he gives "life advice" that he learned over the better part of the century. There were 6 trivial items that he had outlined and gave specific examples of, namely:

1. Wake up with a start.
2. Accomplish one small feat to start your day.
3. Think of the end, first.
4. Make a regimen and stick with it.
5. Reward yourself.

Yeah, I know that's just 5. I'm keeping the last one for myself, sort of our little secret. Maybe when I'm in the mood I'd finally be able to focus my attention for more than an hour and actually write a book about all these, so understandably I'll need to hold back that 6th item just so the 3 people actually reading this blog would be compelled to buy it. Heck, just look at what Stephen Covey did, holding back that "8th" habit for an entirely new book after his previous 7 ones became a best-seller. Then again, what sort of chance do my 6 habits have against his 8, right? Some smart-ass bookstore clerk would probably put my book beside Covey's and people would look at the both of them and say "Hey, I'm getting my buck's worth with 7 (or 8) habits more than the six this loser is trying to sell." So I guess that shoots down any chance of my book selling for a profit.

*****

Lately I've been running out of nonsense to talk about for this blog. Not that I'm making a lot of sense these days, but there has been nothing occupying my noggin'. Take note that there is a huge difference between thinking up nonsense and not having anything to think of, sensible or otherwise. To remedy that I've bought some books, but as soon as I close them, the thoughts fly right out of my head. Really convenient.

So I opened up my notebook, the one I use for work-stuff and found my notes about that meeting I had with my boss. That was interesting... serendipitous, even. Now, not only do I have something to write about, but I've got 5 (maybe six, *wink*) topics that would keep this blog in circulation among my 3 readers. That'll at least assure you that I haven't been hit by a bus or a speeding bicycle lately.

Here's what I'm going to do, I'm going to write 5 posts to explain the 5 (or 6) items enumerated above for my succeeding posts. I can't give you a schedule of when these posts are going to come out because, well you know me, I just can't plan that far ahead, can I?

Oh, and a disclaimer, I said I'd discuss these items as my boss had done, but in no way does that imply that I follow these items personally, nor that these actually work. It's just something tossed out there, for the entire world to take up or disregard. Sort of like someone asking you for some spare change, it's not really required or anything, is it? Unless of course, that person has a gun pointed straight at your balls, which is kinda hard to ignore. If it was trained at your heart or your head, some of you might get smart thinking they're bluffing or you're likely not to feel anything if they did shoot. But at your testicles? You're not likely to die from a gunshot wound there, but kinda makes life a heck of a lot lonelier and miserable, doesn't it?

*****

You could stop here, I guess. The next paragraphs are kinda out of topic, effects of my short attention span. If you'll notice how the first part ended, you'll correctly guess that were diving straight into testicles, where all my focus has conveniently shifted to. You could salvage your taste buds now and leave, I'll understand. Probably, you could go back to the succeeding parts after a short break. At least then you'd have already eaten. If you're bulimic, it is highly recommended that you do this. (Bulimia is a bad thing, by the way. But then again, so was that Baconator Mexican Melt I ate a few minutes ago at Wendy's for breakfast. So who am I to judge?)

*****

I recently found out that some friends of mine had their pet cat "fixed".

*****

Yeah, that was an awfully short paragraph, wasn't it? I intentionally left that statement on it's own so that you'd realize how big and massive (I was gonna say weighty, but had doubts if that was in fact a real word) that felt for me. No, I don't have some special kinship with that particular feline, nor to felines in general. Just that the act of c*stration seems so medieval to me. I couldn't even spell that word out in its entirety. From hereon, if I really have to, I'm referring to it as the "Sad C". (The 'Big C' was already taken)

My first actual realization that there was such a practice came with farm animals. Here was a little baby boy-pig, held upside-down by someone wielding a sharp razor blade. I felt my legs give way from under me. I almost gave up eating pork, then I heard that they did this to bulls as well. If they could, I'm sure they'd also apply this practice to fish and chickens. So I swallowed my pride and went on cooking bacon and steaks. God help me if I were to turn vegan.

Still, that doesn't mean I'm okay with it. Of course, this is a practice done since early times up until today, I'll admit. Eunuchs had their packages "cut off" to ward off temptation as they bathed and served the emperor's harem, and there are lots of males voluntarily having their johnsons cut off to this day. But then that's voluntary, they wanted it. I'm fairly certain that this isn't the sentiment of the majority of males, human or otherwise. If I were a cat or dog, I'd more likely volunteer for behavior modification via electrocution or drugs than be spaded.

Obviously, I've spent an awful lot of time in thought about this topic, knee-weakening as it is. I owe it to all those who've undergone the Sad-C. I start off with the idea of a person's definition, do johnsons define being males? Their individuality? Probably not. So why are men all sentimental about it?

A friend of mine tells me that his grandfather had undergone the Sad-C. He had the Big-C, Prostate. It was painful as hell, as he grimaced and at times lost it due to the pain. His children (my friends father and his siblings) had signed the waiver for them to do the Sad-C. When gramps woke up, without his willie, he was devastated, and set out to hunt the children who had this done to him. My friend found his dad and uncles hiding under the bed and the dining room table, scared to death.

Imagine yourself locked up in prison, hard labor in Siberia or the South Pole, for 300 or so lifetimes. Obviously there's no going back to the real world in this case. But what if, the warden comes up to you and tells you he's gonna cut your sentence to just 10 days if you subject yourself to the Sad-C? Will you take it? Personally, I'd rather take my chances in the biting cold and hard labor. (And the occasional ass-rape, which is why if I'm gonna end up in prison for the rest of my life I'm gonna want to contract some form of contagious but non-lethal leprosy)

From coffee to coconuts

2010-10-22T13:10:00.003+08:00

I was doing nothing in particular last night, enjoying a cup of coffee and some smokes, just letting rush hour traffic pass before I drive home. A van stops in front of me, and a bunch of high schoolers get out. They were exiting the van and finding themselves rushing the gauntlet between a 7-11 and a Starbucks. I hastily made a bet with myself, promising a round of beer should I guess correctly which of these two establishments would get the most traffic. Almost reflexively, I exclaimed that the winner would be the 7-11. Cheap beer and liquor always trumps expensive coffee.

Well, I lost. (Which also means that another side of me won, I guess) Almost everyone went to Starbucks and bought the biggest ass size of the most expensive cold beverage they had with all the extras. Well, a couple of them (they were about 10, in all) did go to the 7-11, and left with some bottled water.

What the heck happened here? High school kids prefer coffee to good old beer? This must be a mistake, maybe they were so wasted already that they needed a coffee to pick them up. That's probably the only reason I'd take in coffee when I was in 4th year high school. Always better to have your breath smell of coffee than of bile and vomit. But these kids looked fresh as a daisy, and yet, here they were, sipping coffees?

And expensive coffees, mind you. Back in the day, my daily allowance was exactly how much it cost to drink a couple of shots of tequila at the DC Diner. These kids spent on coffee what I shelled out for breakfast and lunch today. I'm beginning to hate the younger generation.

Who needs a drink?

*****

Maybe it's because they're not poor as I am. I bet their parents didn't drink beers back in high school too, which is why they went off to do well in college, bag a promising career after graduating, and assured themselves of a great future. I, on the other hand, came from a long line of good-for-nothing, alcohol guzzling forefathers. They had come from backward little islands in the Sulu sea, where getting an education meant living to be 18 years old without getting killed, hit on the head by a falling coconut, eaten by a shark or a giant turtle, or losing a limb as their neighbor (whose daughter they peeked at while showering) hacked them with a kris.

That all ended with my dad. He was the type who knew that there was a bigger world beyond the powdery white shores and pristine sapphire waters of his tiny little island. The island life wasn't for him, he thought. So he went out of his way to do well in school. He worked and studied from the first grade until he graduated from high school, earning cents and pennies from carrying groceries, hawking rice cakes, peddling soup and other odd jobs he could find around the marketplace just so he could buy books and pencils and shoes. While all his friends were off at the beach, torturing sea turtles, knocking down coconut crabs, hitching boat rides to other islands and climbing trees, he was burning his eyebrows reading textbooks with the help of his little oil lamp and bludgeoning his feet walking and running around the market all day.

It all paid off when he got a scholarship to study college in the big city. Of course, the shock to his system was difficult. Here where people spoke in a different dialect from his own, wore nice shoes, didn't have to wear the same shirt for a week, and didn't have to brew their own beers or roll their own cigarettes at home. He also discovered that while he was a friggin' genius in his little island, the standards of education was a heck of a lot higher in these here parts. He had to study twice as hard and long as everybody else, and yet also had to get some money for food and pomade and beers.

He managed it somehow, and through the years was able to crawl his way up beyond the poverty line. He raised a family and eventually became a part of the "barely sub-middle-class", which is where we kids found ourselves growing up as.

*****

Ironically, his children, myself in particular, dreams of living out my life in a tiny little island, surrounded by powdery white sand beaches and pristine sapphire waters. Pestering sea turtles, cooking coconut crabs in some coconut milk, and waiting for the coconut water to ferment into wine. I'm not too sure he's proud.

Blink blink blink

2010-10-21T22:13:00.007+08:00

I can't write. So here I am, writing about it. It's no fun, having some specie of writer's block creep up on you just when you've a lot of things on your mind. The trouble starts when I think of something, then write a whole paragraph about it. Then the mind goes blank, makes a weird whirring sound, beeps twice then shuts down without auto-saving.

*****

That cursor keeps on blinking, taunting me to do something with it. I hate it. It's the same feeling I get when I sit down in someone else's house and there's a dirty magazine just laying around. There's that quality about a pornographic magazine that makes you long to pick it up and browse through it, even when you've seen it a dozen or so times. This cursor is just longing to be violated, to be pushed around the panel from left to right, bullied by the letters which suddenly emerge out of what I imagine to be it's asshole. STOP BLINKING!!!

Well, unless my computer suddenly stalls on me, I guess the cursor will continue to give me a digital version of the Chinese Water Torture. The good news is that with advancements in technology and desktop publishing, the cursor has gone on a diet and has gone from a ugly and irritatingly bright green block on my monochrome computer screen to a less-obstrusive twinkling black sliver on my cooler-on-the-eyes LCD screen. Still is giving me bad "blinks", though.

When I think about it, (yeah, the blinking cursor demands a lot of thought) these cursors are insanely important. Can you imagine typing away, then shifting your focus to taking a long drag out of that Marlboro cancer stick, and suddenly you're lost. 'Where is the cursor? It's supposed to tell me where I am.' There lies the dilemma that most humans who have to face a computer for a living, have no choice but to live through, the fact that something so irritating is so important and essential to your sanity.

To take the irritation a bit further, imagine the cursor blinking right in front of you, with sound. Now that would surely result in a lot of laptops and computer monitors being tossed out of frustration. Beep beep beep beep... blinking and beeping away every second. And instead of a small, thin stick figure, we replace it with the image of a stick of dynamite. Now that's one way to keep someone off-balance.

Buds, anyone?

2010-10-13T23:14:00.003+08:00

I bought a heap of cotton buds lately. Yes, I'm pretty sure I'm stocked up until the second coming. That's when I realized that cotton buds were pretty expensive. You could just imagine me lined up at the cashier's table, with a sack full of cotton buds, then realizing that I didn't have enough money to pay for it so I brought out the plastic.

Wait, have I told you why I felt compelled to stock up on a lifetime supply of buds? It was one of those really life or death situations. You're watching television, then your ear itches. So you try sticking your finger in your ear and wiggling, maybe the earwax would be jarred loose. 9 out of 10 times this doesn't work, of course, and 5 out of 10 times you make it worse. So you go to your supply cabinet to get some cotton buds and baby oil. Guess what? You're all out.

So you tell yourself, don't panic. I've still got some cotton balls, and a box of toothpicks. I'll be fine. Over the years, my dad has demonstrated remarkable skill and resourcefulness by crafting his own home-made cotton buds. This is some real, old-school ear-javelin we've got here. So I try it, but the cotton keeps falling off the toothpick. So I try putting some spit into it (literally) so the cotton would hang on a bit more securely, but as soon as I let it go the cotton unwinds itself and breaks free.

At this point, all hell breaks loose.

I did the next best thing for relief that I could think of. I went to the sink and drowned my ear under the faucet. Didn't help, now I've got an itchy, wet and cold ear. Irritated is an understatement to what I'm feeling, I wanted to take a screwdriver, punch it into my ear and turn a few loose screws out. This is just torture.

Of course, I figured the screwdriver would probably be a bad idea, considering how much I shelled out just to buy 'em babies. Stainless, tempered Japanese stainless steel, magnetized tip and sturdy rubber grip. I wasn't about to bloody these by sticking them into my brain matter.

So anyway I went into my sister's room, and looked for a hairpin. Yes, you heard (or read) me, a standard issue looped hairpin. This was a trick my mom used when we were kids. My mom hated cotton buds. To her, they were evil little things, out to infect your ears with bacteria and puncture your eardrum. But hairpins, which were invented and designed for an altogether different purpose, was apparently perfectly suited to ear cleaning. I'll bet my mom thinks they should be called ear-cleaning pins. I found a bunch of hairpins... but there was either a butterly, or a star, or Hello Kitty glued to it. Even if I did manage to fit them into my ear, I guess the thought of me going to the ER to have Hello Kitty extracted from my ear canal wouldn't exactly be a boost to my erstwhile non-existent street cred.

So all I could do was sleep on it. When I woke up, the itch had somewhat subsided enough that I could walk a straight line to the store and buy me cotton buds to last me 2 lifetimes.

I'd ask Kate for directions, for sure

2010-10-08T18:39:00.005+08:00

I found myself driving all over town today. Got to go downtown, through the university belt, Chinatown, the docks and even visited my old neighborhood. Nice, huh? If only I had driven through all those on purpose, though.

You see, I was supposed to go to the docks this morning. So I woke up, thought up my route, and got there with time to spare. Breezed through my business, then I was a free man. Which presented me with a dilemma, since I forgot to plan for the rest of the day.

Of course, my first impulse was to go to the office. (Yeah, really) So my brain engaged into auto-pilot mode and headed south. But then, I thought: 'Hey, it's lunchtime, maybe I'll make a short detour for a sandwich or something.' So I began thinking of what to eat, where to eat, how much time to I have to eat, where will I park, does the restaurant have parking, should I text for company, do my shoes match with my belt, etcetera. Before I knew it, my brain short-circuited, and my internal compass got shot to hell. Where the heck am I going?

There I was, clueless and floating amidst the tide of compact sedans, motorcycles, container trucks and delivery vehicles. I had little idea of where I'm supposed to be headed, and wherever I was going wasn't it. Here, I made a little map of how it went:

I started from the pentagon on the east side of the map, the black line indicates how I got to my destination, marked by the other pentagon on the western extreme. Then the red line marks my return path. Obviously, it was the scenic route, through downtown before sensibly getting back on track.

*****

Let me make this clear, I did not get lost. I knew where I was at all times, just that I didn't really intend to be there. I had a plan, keep driving until I get to someplace familiar to me where I could easily make my way to where I was headed. It was a good plan, a sound and rational plan, sure maybe a tad stupid and egotistical, but there was at no point any real need to ask for directions from some stranger who thinks he knows better than I would how to get back home.

Of course, there was also never a need to go the scenic route in the first place. But hey, you don't always have to know where you're going and how you're getting there, right? That would be boring. Frankly, you can't always wait for surprises to come your way, sometimes you've got to just make your own surprises, like hitting that stray dog just this morning.

(Kidding, there wasn't any dog. Just a bunch of rags which I thought was a dog, or a puppy, which I had accidentally rolled over of. If it really was a dog, I probably wouldn't be putting it in this blog for fear of my life. If it was a penguin or a kangaroo or some other exotic animal roaming the city streets in a bid for global domination, however, I'd likely have my picture taken beside the roadkill.)

*****

Bought myself some second hand books this afternoon. Figured I would need something to read during my personal time at the coffee shop while waiting for the rush hour traffic to subside. So I got "A Thousand Splendid Suns", "Love in the Time of Cholera" and some light reading, the title of which escapes me at the moment. Actually, I wanted to get the Archie Double Digest, but for a second hand comic book, found it ridiculously expensive.

I'm particularly interested in the Garcia-Marquez book. It's an important element of the movie "Serendipity", which I've probably watched over a dozen times with the ex. (And a few other times just on my own. Gay, I know, but Kate Beckinsale's just too hot, specially with that accent.)

I've read his other book, Ten Thousand Years of Solitude. Yes, wrong title, but that's exactly how I found reading that book... a century feels like a minute compared to how that story dragged on and on for me. (But then again, I don't read the articles in Playboy, nor Penthouse Forum. Yes I'll admit that much.) So I guess that's how hot I think Kate Beckinsale is. I'd actually buy a book whose author I don't particularly find interesting just because of a movie she was in where she had a copy.

So allow me to say, that I think schools and books would be immensely appreciated by students if they were associated or endorsed by supermodels and sexy actresses. If Kate Beckinsale approached me in a tiny bikini and asked me to read my Thermodynamics textbook back in college, I would probably have already invented a perpetual-motion machine, and received multiple Nobel prizes by now. Then you'd all be kissing my backside, won't you? Instead of ridiculing my disdain for asking directions.

Dirty Old Harry took my game away

2010-09-27T20:42:00.004+08:00

I went into a strange office today, a parallel universe of sorts from the one I'm used to. For one thing, it was... ugh... clean! There was glass everywhere, which kinda fooled me cause I couldn't see a thing. That was how impeccably clean it was. And you know those office chairs, those on plastic wheels that swivel and spin? The wheels actually turned and it went wherever you wanted it to go. Not a single ball bearing out of place. Then the people actually occupying these offices came in, and let me just say, I was tempted to run away in terror, seeing that every square inch of fabric was ironed to a crisp. Even the hair on top of their heads seemed to be ironed down as well.

Now I'm not exactly a hobo, but I was feeling as insecure as a lizard missing it's tail. Suddenly every unsightly crease, every piece of lint, every strand of hair out of place stood out for everyone to glare at. Why was I here?

Well, I'm actually in this office for an interview. Yeah that's right, somehow I have brought all this upon myself, I have convinced myself that I wanted to go to the King's grand ball, and I'm waiting for my bad-ass godfather to show up and put me in an Italian suit and crocodile skin shoes, lighting up a Cuban while I'm at it.

I guess you can tell I'm having some serious second thoughts. I hate changes. I don't even change bedsheets and pillowcases until I really really...really have to. Changing offices, is one thing, but having to shed my old threads for those crispy numbers may be a bit more than I bargained for. I was willing my legs to stand up and start running, but while waiting, they fell asleep and I was kinda stuck there, wide-eyed and scared shitless.

*****

I haven't been to many interviews, but I could imagine it to be as close a feeling as a bunch of inmates waiting for their "moment of truth" on death row. There you are, along with a bunch of well-dressed strangers, waiting for some guy in a suit to ask you a bunch of questions to which you have no idea what the right answers are.

So I was there, by myself, letting my legs go to sleep, when a hot chick in a really nifty blazer sits beside me. I smile of course, and start a light conversation. You know, the typical "It's kinda cold here, isn't it?" and "Boy, what about this weather, huh?". Before I could make the transition to one of my killer lines, ("Nice shoes, wanna..."), this stately dude comes into the room.

Stately, by the way, is a word I use which I don't know the exact meaning to. The word just came to my mind all of a sudden at the sight of him. White hairs growing underneath the fading dyed strands, hardened face and hands plus a fair amount of age freckles. Kinda Clint Eastwood-like.

So this dude sits on the chair beside the chick-in-blazer and then chats her up. Apparently, his lines were a heck of a lot smoother than mine, and so I'm left starting into the back of her head the whole time while waiting for the hour of judgment. So there I sat, twiddling my thumbs and committing every word he says to memory. God he was good, I sure hope we weren't going for the same spot, else he'd totally cream me.

*****

By the way, I'd like to give a big shout-out to all the poker gods up there! Thank you, guys... I'm friggin' back!

My own little red army

2010-09-26T17:59:00.004+08:00

I've rid myself of the idiot box... yes, I don't watch it anymore. However, that doesn't mean I don't get bothered anymore. As luck would have it, my sister lives with me now, occupying the other room in my two-bedroom apartment. And she's here constantly. And guess what she does the whole day? Yep... she's a couch potato, either surfing the net or watching television.

With her watching television the whole day, I'm getting almost nothing done. I may not watch the shows with her, but I could hear it, which is pretty much enough to distract me from whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing. Sometimes, I go into isolation mode, locking myself up in my room, but my apartment is tiny so I still hear the television or her laughing her ass off in the living room. It's getting to me.

Take right now for example, I should be updating my CV, coming up with new material for our brochure, planning out my day tomorrow, but with this reality show blaring into my ears, I can't think straight. Thanks to the boob tube, I've been reduced to... well, an idiot. I usually start off fine, but my brain turns to mush when I hear some stupid remark or catch some cleavage (or a pair of really long legs) on television. The train of thought suddenly gets derailed and I'd have to walk all the way back to the terminal and catch another one.

It gets worse when the shows go into commercial breaks. Commercials are 30-second ads, meaning they have to catch your attention in that short span of time so they can tell you to buy something. Well, they're doing a fantastic job, and I end up watching more commercials than getting anything else done.

I can't even begin to tell you how frustrating this is.

*****

Since I couldn't get any work done, I went to my default mode, which is to go daydreaming my time away. It went well for a while, until a single tiny red ant bit my big toe. It was still there, chomping down when I lifted my foot up to inspect the bug and when I picked it off my skin, it had a quizzed look, kinda like asking me what the heck I was doing. I mercifully threw him to the floor, and it walked off to the nearest object of nutrition it could find. Me again. Just like the ingrate that it was, it proceeded to climb onto my flip-flops and was about to have another biteful just as I picked it up again (it still had that "what's the big idea?" look on it). This time, I squished it's tiny brain out of its red little head.

*****

As you may have guessed, where there's one red ant taking a bite off you, there are bound to be thousands, maybe even millions of others, all waiting for their turn. The multitude were in between the concrete walls of my house, where they've set up their headquarters. If only I've been a bit more pro-active, I would get some industrial strength pesticide, drill a hole into their nest, and zap the critters. Fortunately for them, I'm too lazy to put that plan into action.

So now, my apartment has become their playground. They're everywhere, always busy getting in line and making a mad dash to the garbage can, or the sink, or to where I've spilled some sugar and cream while making coffee. For the most part, they don't really bother me too much, unless they're making a meal of my big toe or some other part of my anatomy. In fact, their presence gives a bit of motivation for me to take out the trash, tidy up after meals and wash the dishes religiously. At times, they're even helping me clean up, such as the time I saw them making off with a dead lizard. No, I didn't kill the reptile, it died, probably of old age underneath the sofa, where the ants found its carcass and thought they'd better "clean" it up lest it rot and fester there creating a stink. Thanks guys.

Just imagine how dirty my apartment would be without those guys. I'm thankful I haven't obliterated them with pest spray in the past. Saved a ton on pesticide, too.

Now, if I could only train these guys to go after cockroaches...

Camera shy

2010-09-18T20:35:00.004+08:00

I've been flying for work a lot the past couple of years. Usually I don't mind sitting wherever, it's usually just a one hour flight anyway, I'm getting off the plane before my seat even begins to warm up. But there was this one incident where the guy sitting by the window kept getting up and going to the restroom or procuring something from his bag in the overhead bin that made me hate any seat but by the window. So now, I usually make the effort to check in early to assure myself of the prized exit-row, window seat.

Sitting by the window while on a day flight has its advantages, I'll say. My country being an archipelago, I get to see plenty of beaches along the way. It's become some sort of hobby of mine to try and memorize some distinct feature down below of some peculiar coastline and then go look it up on Google Earth when I touch down. I'd make some sort of promise to myself that I'd make my way over there someday and check out the view from on the ground.

I remember one particular stretch of road by a lake. It's a circumferential road hugging the lakeside on Manila's eastern side. I remembered looking down the window and wondering when I'd be able to drive through that deserted yet conspicuous road. I've looked it up online and basically I have an idea of how to get there, but haven't had the opportunity to try it out. Just last week, I got to do just that.

As I was coming from a client, I knew I was near enough to that road and that it would take me in the general direction of where I was to go to next. So I buckled down and explored a bit. From an industrial zone, I had to weave through a small community of informal settlers, then a short dirt road through some rice paddies, then a steep and winding on-ramp made of mud and gravel. I know, why go through all that effort, right? A number of times, I've almost thought of turning around and abandoning the quest. But when at long last I got on the highway, I was giddy as a school girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

Well, the lakeside view I imagined wasn't there. There was a tall dike separating the highway from the lake in case the water level rose, so you had to get down from your car and walk up the dike to see the brown lake. (Which I did) I would have liked to post some pictures, but I didn't own a camera. (Which reminds me that I should get one someday) The drive was great however, as there were only about a couple of vehicles I saw throughout the whole stretch. I was kinda sad when it ended, a 15-minute drive on a really long and gentle left-hand curve.

*****

Okay, reading back, I couldn't figure out how to end it. Plus, it wasn't an interesting read at all, in dire need of pictures, a screen shot of a Google Map and a view from the plane's window. If you ever get to read this, do know that it was a hard decision to press the "Publish Post" button and that more than once, thoughts on a prolonged tap at the "Delete" button were brought up.

I've thought of posting more pictures and visuals to make my blog a tad more interesting, but I've been consciously resisting. One reason is the lack of a digital camera. Second is that for as long as I could remember, I've been too lazy to bring a camera and actually take photographs. Then there's the laziness in uploading pictures to my computer to think about, and sorting through them to pick out the best ones. Still another reason (excuse?) is that some of my best reads don't involve pictures at all. Novels, books in general, newspaper opinion articles, essays, short stories and other such examples don't have any pictures to guide the reader through the text, and because I'd like to one day be writing such stuff myself, I'm trying to veer away from posting photos. If only I possessed some talent to be able to do away with pictures entirely!

Oh well, at any rate the fact that I need to get myself a camera is still out there. I'm getting old, and my recollection of some things are being compromised. (Though most of my memory problems have a lot more to do with alcohol than anything else) I promise that when I do get a camera, I'm gonna post more pictures with the text. At least that would probably give a lot of people (myself included) some sort of idea what the heck I was talking about.

Until then, well, you're just gonna have to do with more of my sucky texts.

Whatever Happened To... Freddie Prinze, Jr.?!

2010-09-15T01:34:00.005+08:00

First of all, apologies to Chris over at Knuckleheadhumor.com for the title. He has a continuing "Whatever Happened To..." series which is just hilarious! In my defense (just in case he sues me or anything...), the succeeding post is not in the mold of these biographies of his. For starters, the title is in the form of a... well, whatever it is you call that. And, well, it's not nearly as funny as any of Chris' tales. If that's not enough to stop a lawsuit, I'm going to run around the block butt-naked in a bit and report myself for indecent exposure, a side-effect of my current, temporary insanity.

*****

It was the year 2002, I was still in college. (and by "still in college", I meant that I was STILL IN COLLEGE after 8 friggin' years!) Like all college losers, I had a crush on a particular girl in my class. Let's call her Rachel Leigh Cook. (Obviously not her real name, but since this is my blog, I'll call her whatever the hell I want to) We hung out often, chatted on the phone for hours and seemed on the way to a deeper relationship. That is, until Freddie Prinze, Jr. showed up.

No, Freddie wasn't in our class. I didn't even know the guy, and neither did she. Freddie was an ocean away, living his glamorous life filled with hot girls, fast cars and even more hot girls. I was in the third-world, more concerned about where the next beer was coming from, and constantly on the alert for some new, innovative ways to cheat on my exams.

Now, some afternoons when I'm stumped and bored, I invite myself over at Rachel's place and we just hang out. This was not only something that women contrive of as being "sweet", but the fact that it costs next to nothing and you might even get a free meal and beverage out of it made it a really popular thing with me. Usually we'd just babble about stuff, talk about whatever was going on in class and all that girly crap, but then one afternoon, she made a proposition that sounded like a good idea. She had a copy of "She's All That" on VCD, a movie starring Freddie, and asked if I would like to watch it with her.

Apparently, I just said yes to what was to be a rotten lifetime ahead.

It was the usual girl-boy high school plot, the type where the girl-hates-the-guy-then-the-guy-does-something-nice-and-suddenly-she's-madly-in-love-with-him type of movie. What's unusual is that the guy in this movie is not of the typical loser-to-winner mold. He's Zach Siler, captain of the soccer varsity, 4th highest GPA in class, heading off to the Ivy League school of his choice. He's got a really cool jeep, great hair, his girlfriend is the hottest chick in school, and of course, a shoo-in for prom king. He's no Lloyd Dobbler, and I hate him.

Unfortunately, my feelings for this Zack Siler guy is quite the opposite to what Rachel Leigh Cook's is. Also unfortunate, that I am obviously no Zack Siler.

The years pass by, and I eventually graduate. Freddie Prinze, Jr.'s star dims somewhat, but I remember Zack Siler as if it were yesterday. Life was unfair, and Zach Siler was the most glaring proof of it. Whenever something disheartening befell me, I immediately place the blame on this guy. He was the reason why I'm unhappy at work, why poor little children all around the world were starving, responsible for the existence of ignorance and discrimination, and ultimately, the cause of male-pattern baldness and impotence. A neighbor of mine once asked me what they should name their soon-to-be-born baby boy. I suggested 'Zack Siler', and spent a whole afternoon dreaming up all the ways I would torture the little guy throughout his miserable lifetime.

Then a few weeks back, I experienced something really terrible. They ran out of sesame seed buns for a Big Mac during my lunch break. I settled for some regular buns... it just wasn't the same. I didn't have to look far to know who the culprit was, there was only one suspect, my old nemesis, Zack Siler. I figured it was about time that I settled the score with this pretty boy, to put fairness and the law of averages back in the world and stop persecution, war, famine and most importantly an outbreak of ugly babies.

I figured that the best way to track this guy down was to contact him through the man who played him in the movie, suddenly Freddie Prinze, Jr. comes into the picture. I googled him, looked up his twitter account, and put down an unflattering entry on him on wikipedia. Then I opened up youtube.com, and saw the most baffling sight: There was Freddie, up on the ring at the WWE, as a guest announcer. He gained a bit of weight, hairline receding, and was pretty much unknown to a good number of the underage bunch of delinquents that made up the audience. He had been busying himself with the WWE instead of making movies and television shows. Now here he is, engaging Randy Orton in a verbal tussle. Talk about low.

But before I could make any sense of the whole situation, Randy Orton kicked his ass, HARD. He instantly fell to the canvass, quivering like a leaf, worst acting job I've ever seen even by fake-wrestling standards.

It's insanely frustrating when the one thing that you've always known as fact, the only absolute truth, that one constant in the universe, suddenly comes into question and gets ass-kicked to pieces. This Freddie Prinze, Jr. guy, the embodiment of Zach Siler, the root of all that is evil and wrong in the world, beaten up and publicly humiliated by someone who wears Spandex for a living? Now all my beliefs, the structure and ideals in my life that was carefully and painstakingly crafted out of a deep-rooted hate for this character Zack Siler, have come crumbling down.

So riddle me this: whatever the hell happened to Freddie Prinze, Jr.?!!!

Thoughts while sitting in a bus for 7 hours

2010-09-05T22:15:00.001+08:00

Life sucks, a reality that has made itself known to me periodically. In this recent reminder, there seems to be no escaping this rut my career has gotten itself into for the past few months. I am beginning to get to the peak of my cyclical disdain for work, and this has dragged my life in general to the pits.

*****

As I’ve just a few days ago found a large chunk of time while sitting on a bus for 7 hours, I decided to conduct a closer analysis of my soon-to-be-doomed [knock on wood] career. I made a few simulations based on three particular scenarios. The first scenario involved maintaining the status quo, on the premise that my current job involves a cyclical pattern of success and failure. The second assumes that I resign and take another job (in more or less the same field) while the third has me quitting my job altogether and starting up my own business.

It may be of interest for you readers (it was for me) to note that a few other options, such as marrying into money, going back to the folks and sponging off them for years, and fulfilling my life-long dream of being a successful porn star, also popped up, but let’s limit these to the previous three to keep whatever semblance of rationality and sense within this post intact. I’ll get to those other options in future posts, definitely.

So okay, getting to the first option, maintaining the status quo and assuming that with a bit more perseverance and elbow grease, it all works out. Although this seems to be simple and reasonable enough, the fact that this cycle has been going on for the better part of the decade does not sit well with me. Also, such a sinusoidal pattern doesn’t seem to be taking me anywhere, the high points being tempered by the lows on an annual basis.

This is what’s (theoretically) going to happen: things start looking up for the remainder of the year and after all’s said and done, I come up with satisfactory results. But come evaluation time, that time of the year when bosses start to dig up dirt on you to justify the bare minimum increase for the next year, the office gods deem that the low periods deserve more weight that the highs, and I’m left grumbling at what crumbs they throw my way. Give this pattern another 5 years or so and you’ll find me a miserable man, always chasing that stupid rainbow’s end to strangle the life out of a leprechaun.

Obviously, that simulation doesn’t end well. Bit did the others fare any better?

On to the next scenario, and we find me lining up interviews and donning that tie and wing-tipped shoes. Wait, I suddenly realize that I don’t have either one. Hmm… well, let’s take time to assume that I went to a mall and got myself both items for use on these interviews… there, that’s better.

I got the job, and am now happily doodling away in my little cubicle and making sales calls to new clients and new companies. The pay’s a little better, the benefits nicer, and because I made sure that my next place of employment is in the city, the officemates are infinitely hotter. Sounds like heaven, right? So one year then another passes by, and suddenly I find myself getting sick of the office, hating my clients and no longer interested in the hotties at the office.

Ahem… back up, maybe I’d still be interested in the hotties. No, I’m sure I’d still be interested. I’d bet my left nut I’d still be interested. Throw in the other nut as well. Let’s scratch that bit about not liking the hotties altogether.

Anyway, besides the chicks at the office who loves to show off their cleavages and makes sure everyone knows that they just waxed their legs, I find myself in a familiar situation, a miserable idiot who does nothing but chase skirts and sales day after day for an eternity.

Now on to the last one, I quit my job. Hooray! Then just as sudden as my decision to quit, I remember that I don’t have a cent in savings and haven’t a clue how to start a business, even less in running one. Crud.

*****

Now, obviously the second scenario seems to be the best one at least in the short term. But that is exactly what’s wrong with my analysis, I was only looking for instant gratification. (Kinda like all men in general, I guess) If I wanted to get a clearer picture of what I really wanted to do with my career (and life in general), I have to think further ahead in the future.

The truth is, all three scenarios represent what I want out of my career. To start off with one company and learn as much as I contribute, then move to another one to expose myself to a broader perspective of running a business as well as gain a bit more monetary compensation in the mid-term for future investments. Then finally, armed with what I’ve learned and the few investments I’ve made, start up a business, first concurrently with my job, then devoting myself to it full-time if it shows true promise.

I was going to expound on this train of thought, maybe come up with an action plan of some type and design a structure into my daily routine to cultivate it, before something happened. A hot chick happened to hop on the bus and sit beside me. Suddenly my mind wandered off to thoughts of being a famous porn star with money to burn and a harem waiting for me when (and if) I came home to my multi-million dollar beach-front mansion. Life was good again.

The bus then made a final stop, and I was back to reality. Damn.

Deep fried Wednesday

2010-09-02T00:25:00.005+08:00

I found myself on a streetcorner this afternoon, hungry, tired and longing to get back home and lounge on the couch for hours. It's a Wednesday, my least favorite day of the week. It sticks out right smack in the middle of the week, like a a big red pimple. You're kinda stuck between weekends, halfway between relishing the weekend past and looking forward to the one ahead. It's just awkward.

As I was about to get on a bus for that short ride home, I realized that I didn't have any change for the fare. So I decided to grab a bite, being hungry anyway. In my search for a quick meal, I spied an old favorite of mine, fried spring rolls. My feet were excitedly shuffling towards the stall and I got myself a bunch of them to take home with me. Just then, the girl on the stall beside the one with the spring rolls brought out a tray full of little brown paper bags, blots of oil dotting the exterior of each. I inquired what they were, and before the girl could answer, she brought out a sign announcing that deep-fried chicken skins were waiting in each small bag. I bought a couple of the suckers as well. My thoughts were now filled with crunchy, deep-friend delights to be dunked in spiced vinegar.

Just as I was to board a bus, the scent of burning garlic wafted into my nostrils and I froze in half-step. I turned around and another stall was busy with a boy making a batch of deep fried garlic peanuts. I fished out some more change and bought a small pouch of the newly cooked batch. At this point, I almost ran to the nearest bus to get away from the lure of other goodies that might catch my fancy.

I got home and promptly gorged on the small feast I got myself. I could almost feel the oil oozing out of each pore of my face with each bite, but I couldn't stop eating and listening to the crunch it made in my mouth. As soon as it was over, the dining table was a mess of flimsy plastic bags and oil blotted brown paper. I just sat there, wondering if there was a small morsel or two that I could have missed.

Before I could stand up and clean the table, the front door swung open and in came my sister, take-out bag in hand. She asked if I was hungry, if I wanted to eat the remains of her lunch. She laid the bag on the table and brought out a piece of deep fried chicken. It disappeared in the next 10 seconds.

I sat on the couch, satiated, sleepy and smiling.

Wednesdays aren't that bad after all.

Sorry Jesus...

2010-08-25T21:30:00.003+08:00

I was watching something online (not porn) when a pop-up window suddenly, well, popped-up. Now, usually I'd be irritated and say a cuss word or two (or three) and close that nasty pop-up. But this time, as the last syllable of the first (of three) cuss words was leaving the tip of my tongue, the ad suddenly registered in my head... it was a pop-up window telling me that I needed to seek Jesus right then. Oh crap, did I just commit blasphemy? How could I be rude to Jesus?

How does the first line of the prayer for contrition go?

*****

Now, I'm not really a religious person, but I do keep in mind some things that may be construed as sort of superstitious. I know these may be illogical and sometimes silly, but I've been brainwashed by a lot of people (starting with my mother, of course) to at least take precautions due to these. Just last weekend, I cautioned a friend about buying rice in the evening because I remembered this odd superstition that you were not supposed to do that. That also goes for buying nails, knives, wooden stakes and other pointy objects.

One of my favorites, which I still practice to this day, is to warn the imaginary elves, gnomes and other earth spirits to step aside because I'm gonna pee. Folklore tells us that if you do not give fair warning and accidentally pee on these guys, they're not going to take it lightly and will curse you ill. One variation goes on to say that they're gonna make your little one-eyed buddy fall off. This is primarily why I've always remembered it, I guess.

There are a lot of others, half of which I've already forgotten or dismissed as just plain stupid. One of them is that you can't clip your nails at night. This I don't get, but I assume that this was formulated during the time before electricity and Thomas Edison. Back then, of course, it was pretty idiotic to do that anyway because you were likely to cut off more than your nails in pitch dark.

*****

One thing I'm worried about is my bed. When I was a kid, I used to watch the Twilight Zone and there was this episode about having monsters under the bed. I was scared shitless after that and couldn't help looking under the bed every so often to check if there were any under mine.

My dad kinda figured this little fear of mine and had a remedy, he put a machete under my bed, which was supposedly an old trick to fend off the spirits from visiting you in your sleep. This disturbed me a whole lot, though. It seemed to my mind that my dad was coaxing the monsters to kill me, even providing the weapon. Thanks, dad.

Present day, though, I do put a machete under the bed whenever I can as I've come to undo my fear of monsters and developed a greater fear of being broken into and killed in my bed. However, I've recently discarded my creaky cheap bed frame and decided to plop the mattress directly on the floor instead, leaving me no place to hide the knife under. So now I've decided that I've got to get myself a new bed frame, though whether I'm gonna build one myself or buy one off the store is still up in the air.

Kid's stuff

2010-08-20T18:15:00.004+08:00

I was taking in breakfast at the gas station this morning, wait, not really breakfast. It was just the coffee and cigarettes, no food. Yeah, pretty healthy start to the morning, I know. Okay, let's start over a bit more accurately:

I was having coffee and cigarettes at the gas station this morning, passing the time before I hit the office and start another dreary day. Like many other days, I was not looking forward to what lay in the hours ahead, this was just another dot in the path from one point to the next in my so-called life. So I just sit there looking bad-ass, or at least trying to be as bad-ass as I could possibly look like. You know the drill, try to look cool and aloof yet secretly ogle at every chick that walks past you. Of course we want them to notice us, were doing all this sitting around being bad-ass bit for the sake of them noticing us, but we don't want them to know that we notice them, because, well, that seems desperate. (Which in reality, we are) Obviously, this never really leads anywhere, but we do it just because it's inherently programmed into our hard drives, like those male lions who never really do any hunting but just sit there looking really rad and regal and important.

Yes, I'll admit it, men are idiots. But somehow I have this sneaking suspicion that I didn't need to tell you that...

*****

Now, moving on to a smaller version of men, today was a Friday, which means whole legions of third graders are out on field trips. Why they do this, I've no idea. No one ever learns from these things anyway. All I remember from past field trips is that time when I threw out perfectly good Kool Aid from my jug to fill it up with free Coke.

Anyway, back to these little gremlins, a bunch of them (approximately 500 of the pip squeaks) were laying siege to the gas station convenience store. They were from my alma mater, a catholic boy's school who try to pack in as many students as they can into tiny classrooms with tiny chairs and tiny tables. They were friggin' everywhere, sorta like the cockroach infestation that I have at my apartment. I probably stomped on a dozen of the little buggers while walking to the counter to pay for my coffee. They were running, walking, hopping, slithering and turning somersaults all around without a care in the world that you couldn't turn a corner without bumping into one of them.

Walking to my table, I couldn't help but be irritated by the squeaks their huge, oversized basketball shoes made on the ceramic tiled floor. You see, it is a fact of life that parents will always buy their kid a shoe at least 2 sizes bigger than their actual foot size. This gives these parents the false hope that the shoe they purchased will last at least a year or two before their kid outgrows them. This also gives fair warning with each noisy footfall that the little runt is in the area and is undoubtedly up to no good. Unfortunately for parents though, it is a fact of life that little boys love having shiny new basketball shoes, preferably a knock-off from the latest season of the NBA. So their one goal upon getting their gigantic new pair of shoes is to wear them out and wreck them as soon as they possibly could, so their parents would be forced to buy a new pair for the next NBA season. You could just imagine the amount of whining, groveling, begging, tantrums, shouting and bargaining that happens whenever Kobe Bryant decides on a whim that he likes another style of basketball shoes better.

Then a hot teacher walks by. Young, vibrant, eager and full of life. You know, the kind that just started her career in educating these kids. She was surrounded by a phalanx of pre-pubescent boys, every one of them trying to get her attention by giving her candy or asking the dumbest questions (Teacher, why is that perv who's smoking and drinking coffee over there staring at your ass?) Wait, my mistake, not really everyone. The whole lot of them were merely distractions, while one of them was designated to try a grope on some ass or boob then tell everyone in class what it felt like. Lucky bastard.

Sitting there, watching the dynamics of the swarm, I couldn't help but look back at that time of my life. It was an odd time, the concept of the "future" wasn't there yet. All I could think of was that all this school crap was interfering with my career at playing marbles, or reading comics, or preparing for my impending smackdown with the Ultimate Warrior.

The good thing about being in a class of 500 is that you seldom get noticed unless you're either at the top of the class or dead last (or get caught trying to look down your teacher's cleavage). The relative anonimity that one gets is just perfect so that you could get a feel of what is to be the future, when a heck of a lot of us become drones and lose whatever feeling of being special our parents have imposed on us. Unlike the schools which offer extra attention to the kids by maintaining small classes and more supervision, my old school doesn't hand out awards and consolation prizes to everyone. That's the crap kids already get at home, at school you find your real place in society, which is something right out of a "Where's Wally" comic. Let's face is, high self-esteem is overrated anyway. No one ever gets what they think they deserve, only what they do.

*****

Some of the kids gathered round a table, and took out their tops. Wait, I don't think they call it a 'top' anymore... Bey blades, I think is the in-thing. They've got this fancy plastic launcher and plastic spinning tops with blunted metal edges. Basically it's the same game only with different equipment.

I miss the old tops, those made out of hardwood spheres with a rusty nail sticking out the bottom. They didn't have any fancy spring-type launchers, though, only a meter-long piece of string with a bottlecap on one end. You wrung the string throughout the circumference of the top and use this whipping motion to let her loose. It wasn't easy, it took lots of practice and skill to pull off the perfect 1-minute spin. With more practice, you could launch the top in mid-air and catch it on the palm of your hand. It was a neat trick, though like all cool things, the 'chicks' never did appreciate it.

I owned only one top in my day, a rather heavy one made out of a dark mahogany. I used it for years and won a lot of 'money' (we used discarded cigarette packs as currency) with it. One time, though, one of the bigger kids joined our play and challenged us for our tops. This was a common wager then, he won't really take your top, but he'd be allowed to disfigure it with his own by taking a whack at it. There were 4 of us and 1 of him, we figured this was a fair opportunity to earn some street cred, so we obliged. One by one, the older kid beat us at every game, no thanks to his superior throwing technique which thrust his top at a spin that our puny little 10-year old arms couldn't match. After the humiliation, the punishment came. He lined up our tops, burying each into the ground so that only the tops stuck out. Then he tied his top securely to the string, and whacked away. Our tops were so disfigured that they never spun right after that.

So there we were, 4 kids desperately trying to fix our tops. When we realized that they were now worthless, we took them back home and cried over them.

That's right about the time we started playing with marbles.

Reading up on the care bears

2010-08-15T10:24:00.004+08:00

I find myself once again in Pagudpud, northermost point of Luzon island. In the same stretch of beach by the same resort where I spent a new year's celebration nearly two years ago. The weather has been intermittent from sunny to overcast, and I try to spend as much time as I can lounging around doing nothing.

The best thing about beach resorts would probably be how one can justifiably chug down beer in the mid-morning, while reading a book or writing this post. Life is good.

*****

I'm finding myself in unfamiliar territory, reading not one but two romance novels. Yikes, I know. How could a man (a wimpy one, but a man nontheless) veer away from the biographies, historical epics and action novels, turning to the genre which he finds to be fantastic, pathetic and girly to say the least? Though a bit more "classier" than the Twilight series, these are still undeniably romance bits.

The first book, loaned to me by a friend, is a 4-inch western where cowboys roamed the plains and herded cattle, horses and jackasses. No, it's not Brokeback Mountain, just to set the record straight. It was a tough read at first, not being familiar with American history and having no idea what "mesquite" or "chapparal" are, but it kinda got interesting with the appearance of a lone whore in the only saloon in town. (I browsed through the book in search of racy scenes, so far found none) So now, I'm probably through a fourth of the book and have adopted it for bedside reading.

The second book came by accident, when I scoured through my humble library for a good read on a plane. Turns out the 4-inch monstrosity I've been reading won't fit in my backpack, so I needed a more travel-friendly alternative. My interest was piqued by a novel that I swiped off my sister a year ago but haven't gotten around to reading. It was a familiar title, having been critically acclaimed and all that, but I hadn't done any research on what it was all about. When I opened the cover 32,000 feet above the air, I was shocked to find that it was actually a romance novel. Crap. Good thing I wasn't in an exit row, otherwise the prospect of opening the emergency exit and chucking the book off the plane (along with myself and most of the passengers, though) might have been such a tempting course of action.

So now I'm reading two romance novels, one at home and the other for travel. So far, no signs of me transforming into a sappy, love-lorn little bitch has emerged yet, so that's a good sign. Maybe this care-bear fest isn't all too bad, and I might learn a bit or two about being "sensitive" to women and their "feelings" (yes, quote marks necessary).

Just to be on the safe side, though, I bought a hard-core Puzo-esque book recently, to shake off any residual "touchy-feely" emotions I might pick up. Heaven help me if those two books make me want to watch Twilight. (I swear, I haven't even as much as glanced at the trailer!)

Tell them I tried...

2010-08-10T23:43:00.003+08:00

Awful day today... and I'm waiting till midnight to see if it can possibly get any worse.

First off, my phone's useless no thanks to a glitch in it's display. Everytime I slide the thing open, the display just conks out. So I'm either guessing who the heck is calling or have to plug it onto my computer to read the messages I've been getting. Sure, this has been going on and off for at least a week now, but today has been just impossible. I've switched to my sister's old phone temporarily, until I can gather enough beans to buy a replacement, that is. And from previous experience, the beans don't really come all that often.

Then my department has been downsized. No, not in terms of personnel (Whew! Odds are I would have been the first to go!) but in terms of the space we occupy at the office. To extract as much savings as we possibly could out of our electricity bill, we've been ordered to transfer from our 3rd floor offices to a tinier room on the first floor. The move starts by next week, 4 people and a ton of office furniture and equipment occupying a 3x4 meter space. By the way, the space we're moving into used to be the janitor's closet.

The highlight of the day, of course, was that fax I got informing me that we missed out on the career-saving project that I've been hoping and praying for all year. Perfect, now I'm an incommunicado sinking down to the lowest caste of the company structure. I wonder how much it would cost to rush that waiting period on a .45?

*****

Of course I promptly informed my boss about the loss of the project. Had to put on a bit of an act to seem devastated at the turn of events, hopefully that would pare down the screaming that I was sure to get. The boss calmly looks me in the eye and tells me not to fret, "When God closes a door, He opens a window..." then looks out the window. Panicked for a moment when I saw him stare out in the open, I thought he actually meant I should take my sorry ass out the window and onto the hard pavement 3 storeys below. Wait, did he?

*****

Before you go ahead feeling sorry for me and all that, don't. I'm a big boy now, I don't need your pity or that consolation ribbon that they give to everyone who did not win the science contest in the second grade so they feel like they actually accomplished something. In life, there are winners and there are losers, and right at this moment, I'm the latter. No big deal, someone has to lose. I don't consider myself a whiner, because it never helps any situation. Sure I've moped around and had fits and stuff, but only to blow off steam. Life is unfair in that you won't always get something for trying, the more you get used to this idea, the better off you'd be in the long run.

My dad and my boss belong to a generation of people who never believed in "trying". It's was either you did or didn't. If my dad asked if I'd cleaned my room, it was a strictly yes or no question. Whenever I tried to explain that I had finished with the drawers but left the sweeping til tomorrow, that was a clear No. If my boss asks if I got the sale, I'd better come up with a signed contract or a check before I can say yes. Just saying that we start the work tomorrow and they'd send me the check in a week would never fly by him. Sure, this seems a bit harsh, but guess what, the world is a tough place to live in.

So I didn't get the project, that means I'm responsible for the ripple effect that that particular non-event has set into motion. The sales quota would not be met, meaning there would be a deficit in the annual budget. To make ends meet, the company has a lot of belt tightening to do, which might cause some employees to be let go. This puts an end to their regular wages, and their families starve. Eventually the men are forced to a life of crime, their mothers endure slavery while their daughters become prostitutes.

The next time some of you go whoring, do tell them that I tried my best.

The man who saved Mondays

2010-08-05T21:02:00.004+08:00

I succumbed to ice cream tonight. Yes, a moment of weakness that'll take months to correct. I came to the crossroad, one path leading to a healthy tofu dinner, the other straight to rocky road hell. I tell you, the road to obesity is lined with soft gooey marshmallows.

And the thing about temptation is that you can never stop at the first step. First, you look. Then you smell sugary, chocolatey creaminess. Then you touch it, and let the sinfully sweet syrup drip town your fingertips, until it threatens to drip to the ground. You save it with your tongue, and you taste it. Pandora's box ensues, and you're left with that lost expression on your face, unbelieving that you ate the whole damn tub. And you just know that was good, but it could be better.

You're in for it now, as you declare whatever day it is to be your official "sin-day".

So now I'm gorging on potato chips and a non-diet soda, having been released from guilt on this unofficial holiday.

*****

The office was a dangerous place today. Snipers were eying my every move, not even bothering to camouflage themselves. To everyone, I was the evil tyrant out to undermine everyone's happiness. My calls never got to me, my emails ignored, and I've had to repeat myself every time I opened my mouth as no one cared to listen.

All because I was the guy who brought back Mondays.

You see, during the start of the year there was this big town-hall type meeting. Costs were skyrocketing, specifically electricity and fuel. Everyone was invited to share their ideas on managing the impending crisis. Proposals from decreasing the number of fluorescent bulbs in use to switching to daylight saving time were thrown around, the pros and cons discussed and weighed. Then one person called for canceling Mondays. He/she got the proverbial pat on the back from everyone, a hero was found!

What was my suggestion? None. At the time, I wasn't in the office. I wasn't even on the same altitude. I was 32,000 kilometers high up in the air en route to a business meeting 500 miles away.

Back at the office, everyone was high-fiving everyone else. Mondays were non-existent at the office starting the next week. Rather, office hours were scheduled from Tuesdays to Fridays, with 10 hour days. Everyone would come in half an hour earlier and leave an hour and a half later. The plan was that they would save a full hour of electricity (applying the DST rationale) as well as transportation expenses via the company shuttle service. Not only that, each person would also save on laundry, fare, lunch and get an automatic 3-day weekend. Classic win-win situation, it would seem.

But I disagreed. Yeah, such an ass, huh?

Because I was on the selling side of the business, naturally one less day kinda seemed ridiculous. I tried to have the scheme derailed, but the euphoria was at a high that it drowned out any protest that I made. So I made up for it with the only thing that was in my control, and had myself and one of my staff come in on Mondays. She hated me for it, of course, so we reached a compromise that she could take Fridays off instead.

The scheme ran for 4 months, in several variations depending on what work needed to be done. It dawned on them that Mondays were a busy day for most (if not all) the other firms we did business with. They tried working with a skeletal force on a rotating basis on Mondays, but this kinda defeated the savings that 4-day workweeks aimed to deliver. But by this time, they had grown accustomed to the schedule and were trying to get around the kinks to save it. There were vacations booked, dates planned and the thought of a 3-day weekend every week was just too fabulous to give up. It didn't help that the decision was made via consensus of everyone, because let's face it, people are idiots.

This marked my first serious attempt to have the scheme abolished, sensing a weakness. I pointed out the downsides of not having work on Mondays, the inconvenience we were causing clients, as well as to myself. Personally, I was irritated that things didn't get done on time. The half hour in the mornings seemed to be dedicated to eating their breakfasts (as the clients didn't come in before 8am anyway) and the hour and a half extension saw most people milling around the water cooler, doing nothing as work wasn't coming in after 5. I questioned how people were handling the workload, and how little work was getting done despite the extended hours. I got shot down of course, savings were still the priority, and whatever gripes I had could be worked out with a more effective system, they argued. The scheme lived on for another 3 months with more variations and fixes.

Today, I saved Mondays.

In the past 6 months, sales exhibited a downward trend. It had grown to an alarming rate that the big boss had me do a lot of explaining. A WHOLE LOT. I crunched the numbers, made forecasts, plotted charts, extracted whatever analysis I could out of what I had. Things weren't looking rosy however I looked at it. This didn't please my boss, I wasn't looking at the numbers hard enough, close enough. So I dug deeper, and meticulously combed each single account of the 600 regular clients we had. Each single one, dammit!

Then the answer jumped out from the numbers. We weren't losing clients, we were working slower. Thus, sales were turned around slower, creating an increasing rate of backlogs which are choking off sales. On the other end of the business spectrum, we were losing the opportunity to get to new clients "faster", too. So this clearly didn't help either.

Yesterday, I pitched this 'excuse' to the big boss. He sat back, thought for a moment and reached out for his phone. He called up our accountant to ask how much we were saving each month with the 4-hour workweek. The answer wasn't encouraging: P12,000. That was like half a drop in the ocean of our monthly expenses. Then came the dreaded words: "Are you sure about your analysis?". It was now my competence on the line.

The announcement was made this morning, to a groaning audience. People were in panic, offering other alternatives and fixes. When these were shot down, they pointed out the savings that we would be losing out on. Since this was now clearly negligible, pleas for a stay for at least a month were proposed. Sorry chumps, no cigar.

Of course, it was not lost on the other bosses to point out that it was due to poor sales that the scheme had been scrapped, and that I suggested it. Their tone reeked of a sabotage on my part. Crap. No one wanted to take the hit, so guess who the lucky goat is?

So if you're reading this, Monday, you better be friggin' grateful!

How I would never have become an orphan and grow up to be a superhero

2010-08-04T17:17:00.002+08:00

Back when I was a kid, our family moved to my grandparents in Bacolod City because my dad lost his job. Me, my mom and my elder sister stayed there for close to a year, before my dad finally got his act together and we could afford to move back to Manila. It came down to a choice, return to the big city by plane or by boat? Mom had already bought us our tickets to a Manila-bound ferry when my dad decided to splurge some dough from his first paycheck and had us fly back.

We got to Manila via plane, the boat that we were supposed to ride back sank before it hit Bacolod port.

That tale, in itself, was already quite curious and I asked tons of questions about it and if we would also have died (hundreds perished in that tragedy) if we boarded. We would not have been able to board, of course, as the ship never made it to port in the first place. But then I insisted, what would they have done if we were aboard and the ship began to sink? I will never forget my mom's answer then, "I would have drowned you first.". Gee, thanks a lot, mom!

*****

Okay, it might not be fair to have said that without the proper context. My mom had her reasons of course, which in her defense are perfectly rational.

Apparently, at the time both me and my sister were just a couple of toddlers who kept tugging at mom's apron just for the slightest second of attention that she could spare. It wasn't that she was too busy to spend time with us, but there was some sort of competition between sis and me on who was mom's favorite. Yes, selfish little brats, we were. Beyond this, there really wasn't much that we could do for ourselves. Thus, in case the boat sank, there wasn't much we could have done, so instead of us being eaten alive by sharks and suffer a childhood trauma for the next 10 seconds or so of our lives, they'd have to bite through our cold, dead bodies and leave all our happy childhood memories intact.

Didn't help, did it?

Perhaps you must also understand that our mom didn't know how to swim. In this case, with only the three of us to fend for ourselves, we would all have died anyway, so she reasons that it's better we go first and spare us further misery.

But what if someone took pity on two toddlers and saved us? Though this is not likely to happen, our mom also had a problem with this scenario. In her typical mommy paranoia, she would never entrust her kids to strangers. What if our would be rescuers were pedophiles? What if we would be sold off to slavery to cover some bet? What if we got adopted by really rich folks who would send us off to a stuffy boarding school, learn about the world at large, and we become powerful, filthy rich snobs? What if we were consumed whole by a whale, spat out in a weird and alien place and become spiritual leaders respected by all and feared by evil-doers? Or what if we survive and plot our vengeance against the evils of society, buy ourselves a cave, a really cool car and don bullet-proof superhero suits with long black capes and go after bad people? No mother would ever want this to happen to their kids, the possibility of enduring suffering without them to hold our hands through it.

*****

Often I've heard stories about mothers giving up their lives so their children might survive despite being without them, and it does sound like such a noble act. But I can't really blame my mother for thinking the way she did. It does sound practical, and I've no question that she does have our best interest at heart because she always has. It's all just a matter of values, of culture, of perspective. At any rate, I sure am glad that the point of my mom having to decide our fate at sea never did come. I would never have understood the wisdom of her drowning us to death at that age.

Come a time when I need to make such a decision, I've no idea what the heck's the right thing to do.

Bugs and bastards

2010-08-02T21:12:00.004+08:00

There is a chance that as you are reading this, I'm laying on a hospital bed getting a massive blood transfusion. If ever I am, then I will most likely be in a flimsy gown, enjoying a sponge bath from a hot, sexy nurse who tells me that I've been a bad, bad boy in need of a spanking. Perhaps not, who knows?

The reason that a sponge bath might be forthcoming is that I got bitten. Last week, while I was chugging down a beer and enjoying one of many cigarettes that night, I felt a sharp prick on my leg. I looked down and almost fainted at the sight of the biggest friggin' mosquito I've ever seen. I swear, I thought it was a fly until I realized I was turning pale as an involuntary blood donor. I wanted to take a whack at it, but it was just so big that I was scared shitless at what it might do if I missed. Then there's the possibility that my blood would splatter everywhere, most likely on my beer, not gonna happen. After a minute or so, the thing flew off with a pint of my blood in its abdomen.

So here I am, 5 days after and there's still a big red welt where the bug stuck its proboscis (fancy word, ain't it? Thanks wikipedia!) into me. I'm almost certain that I've been infected with a myriad of diseases and my immune system is in a losing battle. I've been taking my own prescription of "antibiotics", specifically beer and rhum, but I skipped a day so I don't think it's gonna be as effective anymore. Must remember to double the dose for the next weeks to make up for it. Then again, there is just no substitute for the proven therapeutic effects of hot nurses, so I just might let modern medicine have its way with me, over and over and over again.

*****

I was waiting for a text from a friend of mine this evening, hopefully some good news on a proposal I submitted for a big project. Not wanting to take any chances, I plugged in my phone to ensure that it didn't run out of juice for that important text or call.

Now it so happened that I had to go to the toilet, and of course I couldn't take my phone with me because there was no electrical outlet there. So I sat on the can and was starting to do my business when I heard my text message tone. Could it be that message? Ok, no need to panic, I'll get to it in a bit, I thought. Then I heard the tone again, then again, then another one, that's 4 messages in a row! This was definitely news, the urgency multiplied by the number of messages I got, I had to know RIGHT NOW!

I cut potty-time abruptly (insert really gross visual here) and ran out to my phone. There weren't any new messages, not a single one. Then I hear my text message alert tone again, waitaminute, that wasn't my phone... my neighbor had the same message alert tone as I did and had his phone's alert volume waaay up. I nearly shat my shorts in anguish. (quite literally, too)

I did the only thing I could to rectify the situation, I set my alarm to our message alert tone, cranked up the volume, and had the alarm go off every 30 seconds until I could conclude my unfinished crap. That'll teach the bastard some phone etiquette, I hope.

Tubbed out

2010-07-26T22:45:00.006+08:00

Had myself a really stressful weekend, nothing doing but work and work and work and watching some 30 Rock on my sister's laptop. Got to finish 'work-stuff' just in the nick of time Monday morning, and turned it in. Now there's nothing left to do but wait to see if anything good comes out of it.

*****

After a grueling day at work, there was no doubt in my mind that all I wanted to do was go home. I needed to relax, to get all the heavy stuff off my mind and just sit on my favorite spot on the couch and stare at the wall. Then I get home and realize that there is something horribly wrong about my apartment... it doesn't have a bath tub. There's no greater tragedy than coming home and remembering that you don't have a tub to soak all your troubles away in. What good is getting your own place for without it?!

So I just sat there on the couch, staring at a blank wall, all stressed that I can't have a bubble bath. Where else am I going to raise my rubber ducky farm? Or hack up my murder victims into itty bitty pieces without creating a mess? Are we cave men, living in a world devoid of the most basic of human comforts? Sure little kids across the world are malnourished and starving, but what good is it to feed them and make them healthy if they are to be subjected to an even crueler fate by not having their own bath tubs with hot water and bubbles?

The great ancient aqueducts of the Roman civilization were painstakingly built on the backs of captured slaves just so the citizenry could be washed clean of guilt and their enemy's blood in bath houses. I'm pretty sure Archimedes would never have solved one of his era's great problems without his tub (nor be running in the streets naked, shouting his now famous 'Eureka!'). And the Japanese would endure hours of being in alarmingly close proximity to naked strangers just to enjoy a hot bath. So why doesn't my apartment have one crummy little tub nor a jacuzzi for that matter?

So I walked over to the bathroom and made some measurements. Turns out, I couldn't fit a tub there even if I wanted to. This has to be some sort of oversight by the architect. Then I walked over to the washing machine, and no, I can't fit in it's tub either. This is quite the problem, as you may imagine.

If only I weren't as destitute as I am now, I would have forked over some cash to a nearby hotel to drown myself in suds and bubbles. In the meantime, there's really no other alternative than a cold shower.

Thoughts while making an espresso

2010-07-25T15:48:00.004+08:00

I've finally got myself a stove-top espresso machine, the shiny aluminum screw-on type that lends home-brewed coffee a rustic appeal. If you want a mental picture, try to remember that scene where the artsy Spanish guy in "Vicky Christina Barcelona" is making coffee for Scarlett Johansson. (Yeah... so now you may correctly guess the inspiration for this purchase)

I got it at Starbucks. I know, pretty expensive. Expensive enough that I had to use my credit card to pay for it. Tears welled-up in my eyes while the barista was bagging the box for me, not because I really really wanted to have one, take note.

So it took it home with me, washed off any impurities and metal shavings under the tap, and made myself my first home-brewed espresso. It was a real bitter (read on) and heart pounding experience, apparently because I sort of miscalculated the proper proportions of a caffe americano. After a couple of sips I could feel my heart trying to escape from my chest and a twitching in my left eye.

*****

If there's one thing I learned from this highly-caffeinated experience, it's that I should be more careful in small talk. A couple of weeks ago, I craved for that coffee buzz while driving back home from the office. It was a rainy evening, and the traffic report from the radio announced a heavy traffic situation was waiting for me on the drive back. So I stopped at a gas station which had a Starbucks.

This coffee shop was familiar to me, for the past years I've made rest stops at this station and passed the time here with my usual cup of Joe. It has gotten to be a familiar twice a week habit that the staff there has deemed me a regular and as soon as I walk in, they're already filling out my usual (I should say, constant) order.

On this particular night, though, there was something different. They had a new staff member manning the cash register, and she was a cute one. I smiled at her and gave her my order, but before she could punch it in, one of the regular staff had already handed me my usual mug of coffee.

"I see you're a regular.", she said as she printed out my receipt.
"Not really, just maybe once or twice a week." I answered, while uncharacteristically dropping some change in the tip box.
"So I guess I'll be seeing more of you soon?"
"And I of you." I smiled as I walked to my usual table outdoors.

It was a good 10 minutes before she came outside and sat at the table next to me for her break. I smiled at her and she shot back a smile at me. And we came to talking, light chit chat, mostly, with a bit of flirting (well, on my part at least). Then we came to talking about coffee. (Because I'm such a doofus, as if she didn't have enough talk about coffee on the job. Sheesh...) She liked those frothy cappuccinos, while I said I liked mine black. (Something I tried out after reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez) She seemed perplexed by my choice of unadulterated coffee, which I thought gave me a bit of leverage in the "mysterious guy" category in this particular instance. Such a player, no?

So I babbled on about what little I knew of coffee. And recalling that scene from the movie, told her I've always wanted one of those stove-top espresso machines. It was at this point that she said Starbucks sold those but didn't carry those items on a regular basis. Too bad, I said. She promised to check out their office if they could have one for me delivered to this branch. Of course I said I'd like that, not really meaning it. I thought it was just one of those things that you left hanging so you'd have something to talk about for the next encounter. So she paid her leave to go back to work and I said I'd see her next time.

Two weeks after when I got a text message that the espresso machine was now available. I had almost forgotten about it, but was elated that she remembered. Problem was, the message was from Floyd, one of the regular staff. I thanked Floyd for the message and told him I'd pass by their store the next day. The fact that she told this Floyd guy to text me about it might mean that she thought about me, and that she would be there when I came to pick up the item. That was cool!

I came by the next day, but she wasn't there. Apparently she was on loan from another branch for a week and only left a reminder that I wanted the espresso machine on order. She wasn't scheduled to be back there anytime soon. Floyd also wasn't there for me to ask for her number to thank her. What a bitch for leading me on, I thought. Well, my fault mostly for being such a flirt.

So now I'm stuck with my very own espresso maker, and no one to share coffee with. Crap.

Have passport, will travel

2010-07-25T00:40:00.003+08:00

A milestone for myself, I've just applied for a passport online. Yes, I'm over 30 years old and haven't had a passport, which pretty much means that no, I haven't traveled out of the country... yet.

So why now? A friend of mine is scheduled to move to Hong Kong in a month and has invited me and another friend to stay with him there for the new year's celebration on January 1, 2011. Of course, to be able to take him up on his invitation, I would need to finally get myself a passport. So here I am, applying for one. Hopefully this will be nothing like my previous application which saw me line up for half a day only to be turned back because of some stupid clerical oversight. If this new application of mine turns out to be another dud, then I will take it as a sign that I'm never going to get a passport and will be happily content to stay put in this tiny archipelago that I call home.

*****

In a country where a great majority of the population have been brainwashed to believe that opportunities to a better life and career can only be found beyond our borders, the case of my not having a passport all these years has been the exception rather than the rule. Almost everyone is looking to go work, study or live in other countries, taking chances with language barriers, different cultures and beliefs, climate and food, because they believe that to be able to do so is a huge step towards getting the lifestyle that they deserve.

So don't I think that way as well? Not necessarily.

You could probably say that the main reason that I don't think that way is because I'm scared shitless of what's "out there". Sure I could be earning a ton of money operating a crane in some far away desert than doing what I'm doing here, but then I'm scared of scorpions and camels. I could be a nurse in some hospital earning by the hour and sending back thousands of dollars or euros back to the folks, but I would have to endure lonely days and nights and harsh climates. I could even be working on a cargo or cruise ship, finding myself in a new port each day, but I'm afraid of sharks and storms and pirates.

Instead, I chose the life I'm currently living, hot summers and an unbelievably humid rainy season. Working for scraps while braving endless red tape and long lines. Lagging in technology and innovation while watching reruns of western television shows and bored by unoriginal local movies and shows. This is the safe choice, where I know how to get around pitfalls while easily enduring the inconveniences of the third world.

*****

I realize, however, that there are a lot of things that I would like to see and experience outside of this country at least once in my lifetime:

1. Snow - yes, this is probably one of the most magical things in the world for anybody who has lived in a tropical country their whole lives. What does it taste like? How fast does it melt and is it squishy or brittle? And how much would it hurt if someone threw a snowball at me?

2. Squirrels and Chipmunks - how much cuter are they than the field and sewer rats? And are they edible?

3. An Aurora Borealis (or their Southern hemisphere equivalent)

4. Disneyland - I'm particularly interested in seeing Ariel of "The Little Mermaid" in person, perhaps a little cleavage action would be nice, too.

5. A Bullfight - Putting on that silly hat and getting to within inches of a rampaging bull, really? That is just reckless and insane. Why can't these people play with their cocks as we do here?

6. All 7 man-made wonders - because taking my picture in front of these would look really impressive on a facebook page.

7. Mardi Gras - topless women. 'Nuff said.

8. The North Pole - cause Santa's got a lot of explaining to do.

Well of course there's more, but I guess these are what easily comes to mind. Hopefully I'd be able to get to see some of these until my near-future passport expires. Until then, I guess I'm pretty much stuck here.

IOU

2010-07-24T12:49:00.003+08:00

I've this friend who has been 'borrowing' stuff from me. Because he's my friend, I don't mind of course and let him cast his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. This has been happening for quite a number of years already.

Trouble is, rarely does he ever return what he 'borrowed', thus the quotation marks. Even more troubling, I have failed to notice this until the latest favor I have given him, which is cold hard cash. It isn't really that much, but it is quite significant considering that I'm kinda short on cash and living from paycheck to paycheck the past years.

It's been a month and a week since he promised to return the loan, and I've gotten neither a peep nor a hoot about the delay from him. We did get together once three weeks ago, but my short term memory has conveniently forgotten the loan that particular point in time (convenient for him, of course). He is my friend which means I have his contact info and all that to call or email or text him if necessary, but I just can't seem to bring myself to collect.

The downside is that because this loan has been dragging on through bills, rent, groceries and all those other expenses on my part, I've developed a specie of resentment towards all the other times he 'borrowed' stuff. It has gotten to a point where I've lately become irritated whenever I receive another bill or while writing out a cheque for the rent. The worst of it is, I've been able to mentally compute the monetary equivalent of how much he owes me for this loan, past small uncollected loans, as well as the doodads, tools and various other items he hasn't returned for the past 10 years. Disregarding inflation rates and depreciation costs, it now stands at 40,000 pesos. To be fair, of course, I've also mentally computed how much I owe him in the stuff which I borrowed and hadn't returned, and my total is at 800 bucks.

*****

Before anyone goes on despising this guy, let me just clear up that you can't unless he owes you anything as well. Being a friend, I have the right to despise and bitch about him all I want, that's one of the benefits of being a friend (in my twisted mind, at least). Besides, he's got good reasons for not being able to pay up, which is why I can't collect, dammit.

*****

Does this mean that a moratorium on lending stuff (specially cash) is in effect? Now there's the rub, because in spite of all that, I'm still willing to help the guy out when he's in a rut. So why am I still bitching about it? Because I'm a sick dyslexic bastard who just can't seem to get enough of a tragic thing and likes to wallow in misery.

The price of free stuff

2010-07-19T22:35:00.003+08:00

Did some groceries a while ago, and hadn't noticed that I picked up a heck of a lot of peanuts until I plopped the contents of my basket down in front of the cashier. 6 bags of peanuts? Really?

So I feigned surprise and discarded the other 2 bags. Didn't have to though, as cashiers tend to not get surprised at how eccentric people's grocery lists can be. Take the lady behind me, for instance, buying both cat, dog and bird food. Does she own a small zoo or something? Or the old guy buying several packs of condoms... wait, is that my dad?!

*****

Got a new watch today, came by mail. Apparently, my credit cards love me so much that they decided I deserved a new watch. I didn't deserve an expensive one, though, but I'll take it just the same. I tried filling up the warranty but it expired last year. So it's a cheap, old watch, with a battery life of anywhere from 3-6 months. But then again, it's free so I can't really complain, can I? I'll just wait till it's batteries conk out and replace them. Hopefully by then the credit card company would realize their mistake and send me a new battery. (fingers crossed)

So that particular watch now adds to that long-list of freebies that I keep getting from less-than-well-meaning marketing campaigns. 2 watches, 2 dozen or so coupons for a free fast-food meal, a leather-bound notebook, an air freshener, a bag full of computer doodads, a drip coffee-maker, a gym bag, a set of coasters, a flashlight, countless pens, a buffet dinner, and free one-day trials at a gym. I'm sure there's more, but that's all I can recall for now.

Working on the premise of a world where nothing is truly free, what have I had to suffer for 'freebies'? An almost insurmountable amount of credit card debt, years of subscription to magazines I have no time to read, countless afternoons wasted listening to a presentation by some sales rep, and filling up various surveys that I really don't care for anyway.

But was it worth it? After years on reflecting on this question, my answer is: it depends. You must think I'm pretty useless(and gullible), huh? You're probably right.

Take this new subscription I'm contemplating on, for instance. It offers a 3-piece luggage set upon signing in. I like that magazine, and despite probably not having enough time to read it religiously, I will get a few moments or so of good reading done. Now, as it so happens, I've sold the luggage set in advance to an officemate for the same value as that subscription, thus, I get a free subscription for something I will read probably once a month. Not too bad, I should say. On the flipside, there's this real estate company that promises a free dinner and overnight stay in a hotel if I show up for a viewing of their project. Seems pretty neat, doesn't it? But beware, because the buffet really isn't as good as you've imagined it to be, and the overnight stay at the hotel means they'll give you the crummiest room they could find. The worst part is that you show up at their viewing, and find yourself trapped there for a whole day, just nodding your head at some numbers and words they keep showing over and over again,and you exhaust yourself trying to come up with excuses why you have to think their offer over first. I'm telling you, it's not worth the trouble.

Going back to my new watch, is it worth it? Yes, only because it came as a reward for previous purchases by my credit card.

Anyway, if any sales reps are reading this, I'll be needing a new belt (brown, preferably), a new mobile phone, a stove-top espresso machine, or a pair of running shorts. Cash is always welcome, too.

Filthy cars, vandals, noisy women and silent men

2010-07-12T23:55:00.004+08:00

Some punk had the nerve to vandalize my car last night. One of my neighbors, no doubt, since the car hasn't left the garage since Saturday night. I wanted to file a report, but thought it wasn't going to go anywhere, anyway.

You're probably as shocked as I am, where has decency gone in this world of ours? When had respect for private property gone to the dogs?! Of course I should report the incident, you say. Was it spray-painted with gang-letters? All four tires punctured? Scratched with a bottle cap or keys perhaps? One of those toilet paper pranks?

Before you go take that pitchfork out of the barn, here's what the little vandal wrote: [translated] 'What a nice car, too bad the owner never cleans it, though. Please have mercy and take this car to the carwash?' Irritatingly polite delinquent, I know. Pretty clever too, he wrote this on the passenger's side of the car so I never spotted it myself. Learned of it from an officemate, who showed me a picture of the graffiti via his camera phone. She's posting it on facebook, she says, even added a little note of her own that read 'You should tell the owner to take a bath, as well.' Nice little trap, I thought. When the perp shows his cheeky little mug at last I'll use his face to wipe the dust and grime off my windshield.

*****

So why don't I take the car to the wash more often? Besides the laziness, of course. I usually tell people it's because I want to make a statement, be a 'rebel' of the filthy sort. Then, while driving home, in one of those rare instances that I turn on the radio, Jewel's distinct melancholy floats through the air and whispers "...you were, fashionably sensitive, but too cool to care." Perfect!

*****

I was talking to another officemate last week, and we got to the topic of her daily commute. She usually takes the MRT, that elevated train that runs through the city, to save on time. In the afternoons, while commuting home, the volume of passengers waiting to get on the train gets too much at times that she takes the train going the opposite direction, stays there until it reaches the last terminal and waits in the same car until it switches tracks and goes her way. This little trick of her has given her a unique look at the differences between men and women.

You see, the MRT is divided by women's only cars up in front and men's only cars in the rear. Of course, women are free to mix it up with the menfolk if they so wished, but the men are restricted from boarding the women only cars. By the time the train switches track, the cars also switch in order, thereby the men's cars becomes the women's and vice versa.

In the women's cars, which she usually rides, the drone of the metal wheels on the track is no match for the chattering of female voices. Everyone talks in the car, whether it's with their buddies, on the cell phone or singing a tune while listening to their mp3 players. Someone could be giving birth right beside these women and they'd still be blabbering away. During the rush hour, it gets worse. Every inch of space is occupied, they're packed like sardines, and yet they still talk. Imagine all those voices straining to be heard, transforming into a collective buzz, like a plague of a million locusts about to infest a cornfield the size of your backyard.

Then, sometimes, she's in the men's car. Crickets chirp, and you could hear the noise of a pin dropping. She'd witness a group of men talking boisterously on the station's platform, then as if a switch was suddenly turned off, they shut up and board the car. Sometimes one would cough, then everything went eerily silent again. A cellphone would ring, a man's voice answers, "I'm on the train, I'll call you when I get off." and it's back to 'normal'. Just as she'd thought she was in the twilight zone, the doors open and close and she'd hear someone's voice at last. She'd look for where it was coming from, and see a woman, chatting up her boyfriend, while he just nodded yeses and nos.

"Why is that?" she asked. I only gave her a silent shrug in reply.

Child Labor

2010-07-10T13:44:00.004+08:00

It's usually boring being a kid around the house on weekends. After the run of Saturday morning cartoons, there was nothing much to do but wait for lunch. All the other kids were, like me, trapped indoors as well. Parents in those days didn't like their kids going out before lunch on weekends, because these dumb kids usually forget all about eating lunch and play until late in the afternoon. Mind you, this was the age before playstations and the internet, and a boring day indoors was A BORING DAY INDOORS.

"Why don't you read a book or study your lessons?" mom would say, compounding the misery.
'Why don't you just shut your pie-hole about books and let me out of this stupid house, mom?', I'd usually think to myself. I may be young, but I wasn't foolish enough to get myself into a morning-long whipping. Also in those days, kids actually get their dose of whoop-ass and child services won't give a rat's ass because it's how things worked between parents and their bratty seed.

Every so often, however, my dad would go for a drive out and offer an exciting and fun escape from the house.

As soon as I hear the jingling of my dad's car keys, I'd stop whatever I was doing (such as staring at a wall or twiddling my toes) and ask if I could come with him. I never really asked where we were going, it didn't matter anyway. My dad would give me a flat no, so I whine and be a bitch, complaining how there's nothing to do indoors, another no. At this point I'd be such a brat and throw a tantrum. Then he'd say yes, as long as I just stay in the car. Perfect!

So I put on my shoes and happily ride shotgun. My dad would hum a tune or two, then stop at some alien location, parking the car by the curb. "You wait for me here, and don't leave the car." he'd mutter while turning off the engine. He'd disappear into some random building and I'd be left alone in the car, with doors unlocked and windows half-open. (I'm not really sure if the streets were safer in those days, or if my dad had secretly hoped that his bratty son would be kidnapped and he'd finally be rid of me)

At this point, I'm ecstatic just being somewhere I haven't been before, while in the general safety of the car. I'd tinker with the radio, scoot over to the driver's seat and pretend to drive, snoop around the car, opening glove boxes and secret pockets. When I get bored of changing the station or playing formula one driver, I'd jump into the backseat and just lie there, daydreaming away until dad came back and we went home.

Good times, huh? In retrospect, not so much.

*****

I was standing around some busy street yesterday, passing time away before an appointment when a car stopped in front of me and a man got out the driver's seat. "Stay in the car and don't get out." he muttered to a kid glued to his Playstation in the passenger's seat before closing the door. How cool it would have been if I had a Playstation back in the day, I wouldn't even have left the house at all.

After a few minutes, a tow truck came by and parked in front of the car. The I'll-tow-your-car-while-you're-not-looking-and-have-a-good-laugh-about-it-at-the-station-guys looked the car over, and saw the kid inside. They looked at each other, scratched their heads and drove off. This happened another couple of times until the man emerged from a building, got back in the car and drove off.

Now that particular scene shed a lot of light on the matter. This kid's presumably a reluctant passenger in this trip, the only reason for his presence, to thwart the tow-truck company's attempt at a good pay-day. You can't tow a car with someone inside, I'm guessing. And waiting for the driver to return to give him a ticket was not worth the hassle while the prospect of other prey illegally parked on other streets remained. This kid probably got some ice-cream as a reward for doing his old man a favor, lucky bastard. This, folks, is responsible parenting at its finest.

Looking back, I never got anything, not even a dog biscuit, for being a tow-truck-deterrent. And I unwittingly volunteered for that job? Talk about lambs to the slaughter.

Starting up

2010-07-08T21:47:00.003+08:00

I was in line at Starbucks yesterday, and the lone honey-glazed doughnut in the display shelf was jeering me. I hate it. Somehow, it knew I was on my no-to-evil-carbs diet again, and was laughing it's hole out at my helplessness.

Then this cute girl went in line behind me. I smile at her, made small talk, then offered to buy her a honey-glazed doughnut, which I did. Sayonara, honey-glazed douche-bag!

*****

I love my job. Wait, that should actually read: 'I love that I have a job'. Recent events have revealed to me the reality that jobs aren't as secure as people think they are. A buddy of mine got terminated, my brother-in-law deemed redundant, and my sister is getting into all sorts of trouble at the office because of her blog.

Don't get me wrong, I've always appreciated my job. The 8 years I've spent there since graduating from college is a testament that I enjoy what I do. However, it's so easy to forget that in the end, it's a business. These companies are there to earn money for the shareholders, not really to ensure that employees are all happy and looked out for. Only a fool would think that they're untouchable, no matter how high you get up the ladder, there's always the risk of falling off it.

In large part, this is the reason that I'm planning my grand 'exit strategy'. I'm currently at the first step, which is to be financially secure and not having to rely on my paycheck. I suspect that it gets easier after that, working with a passion instead of working because you have to make that payment on the mortgage. The next step is to plan investments, which in my case would be to start up a business of some sort. Ultimately of course, the goal is not having to work at all.

However, if there's one thing I've learned from my current 'mentor', it's that one never really stops working. To stop working means to be dead. He's probably right, he's 73 years old, and he's still as zealous in the business as when he started it more than 3 decades ago. The only reason that he's in his self-declared semi-retirement, he says, is to ensure that someone is gonna take over the reins of the business when he 'stops working'.

*****

A friend and I were downing some beers and we got to talking about our career choices. Why did we end up working where we did in the first place? When we look at where we are now, and think of the other people who followed the money and are now basking in it, he couldn't help but think that maybe he made the wrong choice.

The real goal, he says, is to create his own business. To do that, he first needs capital, which apparently, the people who followed the money have easily accumulated. If he were in their shoes, he'd be halfway towards his goal already, he comments.

I'm not sure I share his sentiment, I say. But then again, maybe it's just because were two different people in two different fields. In my case, I need this job to be able to prepare myself for eventually managing my own business. Over the years, I've learned a ton of stuff that I wouldn't have realized had I worked in a cubicle all day and stared at a computer. Sure, there's still a lot to learn, but there's really no easy way to prepare oneself for that anyway. As for capital, well, I'm almost certain that the problem will always be that you don't have enough, so why bother worrying about it?

*****

My 'mentor' once told me, the biggest hurdle in starting anything is that mental one, the feeling that you can't do it. There will always be a reason, in the case of starting a business, it's almost always capital. What many fail to realize is that the main goal of any business is to increase the value of whatever resources you have, meaning that it doesn't matter if you start with a peso or 10 million pesos. As long as you are able to increase the value of what you started out with, then you're in business. The only real challenge is, starting it.

Taking on this challenge in my job's context, I've recently signed a contract to lease an office down south. I haven't really figured out how I'm gonna make it work, but since it's there already, I've kinda forced myself that it's gotta. The official plan is that it's gonna be an extension of our office, and that were gonna get clients from the many industries that are starting up in the region. However, I've a feeling that this isn't really such a sound idea.

Nevertheless, I've committed to starting it. No business plans, no clients, no staff. Just the gut feeling that there's gotta be something that we could do there to make money. Ballsy, I know, and the repercussions? Well, one could say that whatever the outcome of this venture has a very direct reflection on my employment. In any case, I consider this a valuable opportunity to learn something, anything. Let's just hope my mentor was right.

201,000 Reasons

2010-07-07T21:28:00.003+08:00

There are 201,000 reasons I should be scared shitless.

A couple of weeks ago, after arriving home from another domestic trip, I swapped credit cards that I kept in my wallet. I usually carry only two cards, depending on the types of purchase that I would anticipate. I use one card with a higher credit limit and more bonus perks for travel, and another for gas purchases because of the higher rebates it offers. I also always carry around yet another one for emergencies only.

So as I was replacing the cards, I noticed that one of them had a tear right along the magnetic strip. I haven't really noticed it until then, I haven't had to use it for months anyway. But just the same, I wondered if I could have it replaced.

I promptly called up the card company, and they said they'd be sending me my replacement in a week. Great, I thought. There wasn't any hurry, but I looked forward to it just the same.

So it came today, along with a notice that they have decided to up my credit limit. Crap!

*****

Just yesterday, I learned that one of my loans had already been paid off. A week ago, I had the balance of one of my cards transferred to another for a magnificent rate of 0.50% per month interest. A month ago, I've successfully been able to get a stay on my annual dues for yet another card. For the past 4 months, I've been able to keep true to my promise of not using any other card except for the one I use for gas purchases. 6 months ago, I paid off the total balance of still another card and promptly cut it into itty-bitty little pieces. (They still claim I've some dues to pay, though. Good thing I've got emailed evidence to the contrary)

So you can see, I've been such a financially responsible kid for half a year. The trouble is, they're on to me.

*****

Besides today, last week a telemarketer told me I was one of the lucky cardholders that could avail of an outright loan from them at only 1% interest per month. Last month, I got a letter that I only needed to use my credit card 5 times in a month to avail of a free watch. 4 months ago, I got a pre-approved credit card in the mail with a free dinner on my first use.

So far, I've been holding out fairly well. But there's only so much a man like me could take.

Just yesterday, I stopped by an appliance and electronics store while waiting for a meeting. There it was, a shiny new LCD television set with a free home entertainment system at a rock-bottom price. And if I use my credit card, I could have it paid in 12 installments at 0% interest. But wait, there's more... for an additional amount, I could get an mp3 player thrown into the mix as well. Last month or so, as my phone was getting noticeably wonky, I passed by another electronics store and saw a nifty mobile phone also available in 0% installments. And did you know that a leather seatcover set for my car could also be paid for by plastic?

Really now, why is the world conspiring against my financial health?

*****

I put the notice and the card back in its envelope, and hid it underneath my underwear drawer. I also tucked just the one credit card for gas in my wallet. I've come so far down this road that I can't afford the risk of being sidelined and back in the hole, so to speak.

"Just when I thought I was out... they pull me back in!" - Michael Corleone, The Godfather III

Yard Time

2010-07-06T15:21:00.005+08:00

Hi, welcome to "the yard" at the office. This is where I usually go for my cigarette break or if I need to do some heavy thinking. I call it the yard because it somewhat resembles the prison yards that I see in the movies, where inmates go to get some sun, smoke, socialize with the other convicts, as well as occasionally stick an improvised ice-pick into another con's kidney. I suspect that the resemblance is deliberate, a sublime reminder that the ultimate goal is really to get out of this place as quick as you can... alive.

The yard is on the top floor of our 3-storey building, same floor as my office making it really convenient for me to take five when I need to. It's an open deck where we prisoners... I mean, employees... can converge for office evening parties, do tai-chi, pray to Mecca (if you were Muslim, that is), or just hang out should our office be submerged by 2 meter floodwaters again.

If you'll take a closer look, you can see the South Luzon Expressway, right along the tree line. Then there's the roof of the huge warehouse on the left, where the big trucks go to unload and store empty Coke bottles before they are sent to be cleaned and sterilized.

There's also that giant billboard which usually cuts the dark, starlit evenings nicely, making the yard an ideal place for a making-out. Unfortunately, my persistent advances on our cute former-receptionist never led me here to try it out for myself. (I did get a floral-scented restraining order once from her, though.) The billboard, on one occasion, featured a hot sexy starlet modeling lingerie for a month, which coincided with the same month I was smoking three packs of cigarettes a day.

And speaking of smoking, I believe this is also the official smoking area of our building, because why else would they put all those orange, terra-cotta ashtrays with the green leafy things on top of them? Awfully considerate of them, huh?

If you go near the edge, you'll see the field right behind our building:

This used to be a rice paddy, until the whole area was re-zoned to be industrial lands and it became boxed up this way. Even if you wanted to plant rice there again, you'd be spending a fortune pumping up water from deep underneath it doing so as the irrigation canals have been cut off by the roads and buldings that currently surround it.

There is still an awful lot of wildlife that inhabit it, though. Every once in a while, snakes and large lizards are known to slither and crawl through the thick brush. Personally, I haven't seen one in the wild yet, but I know they're there because the field's caretaker has been roasting giant lizards and snakes in his backyard every once in a while. There are also lots of birds who swoop down there during clear days, catching field mice and other game. I've seen ravens, the occasional field owl, and some migratory birds here, all of them lucky enough that I still don't own a BB gun nor a Perigrine Falcon.

I find it quite odd, though, that the caretaker goes through the trouble of gunning his weed-whacker and having at the brush. He's got an army of goats and a herd of cows grazing on a similarly vacant field not too far away. He should simply let them loose here and watch them chew and chew and chew all year round until the urge to have steak and kebab becomes overwhelming. Here you see the exact line when he lost all interest mowing down the grass or ran out of gas in his weed-whacker. I'm pretty sure he's gonna be back with a blow torch one of these days to finish the job.

Of particular interest to me, however, are these termite mounds:

There are several myths which I want to try out.

1. Termite mounds have excellent thermal qualities, maintaining a constant inside temperature of 32 degrees Celsius whatever the conditions outside, even if you set the exterior ablaze.
2. Each mound contains exactly one queen and one queen only.
3. Termites are excellent producers of Hydrogen gas... so each mound is actually a nice little Hydrogen bomb waiting to happen.
4. Termites are tasty critters.
5. Termite mounds harbor earth spirits, real live dwarves and gnomes. I've been wanting to get a garden gnome for ages.
6. Peeing or trampling upon termite mounds upset these earth spirits. You get sick real fast and die.
7. If you ask permission before peeing on said termite mounds, though, nothing bad will happen to you.
8. Termite queens are horny as hell.

I'll admit, its gonna be hard separating myth from facts (especially if you decide to try out #6 first and die). Equally hard will be keeping a brave front when faced with a real live lizard or snake which are very probably in this rainy season.

Besides, it's gonna be hard plotting my escape from this prison in the first place.

Unless you're being chased by a bunch of evil mutant penguins out for your blood, why bother?

2010-07-01T22:40:00.006+08:00

I was taking a dump last night, flipping through the pages of one of my weekly subscriptions (Yes, I subscribe to magazines instead of reading them online, how jurassic is that?) when I chanced upon this article about an unhealthy obsession with marathons.

By the way, for those of you who still make the mistake of calling your 5 kilometer photo-op a 'marathon', you actually need to run 42 kilometers before boasting about your 'first marathon' on facebook. For good measure, read it again, I said RUN, not jog, capisce?

The article was written by a Linda Flanagan, who claims to have missed out on qualifying for the Olympics by 4 minutes and 18 seconds, but seemingly enjoys torturing her mind and body almost 2 decades after her peak form by still running every day and trying to go faster, longer.

Okay okay, no point in getting bitter about it, I say to myself. She's a world-class athlete, and you're... well, not? Has never been, will never ever be, even in your wildest dreams, never? Just dunk the mag in the trash bin and pull your shorts up and get over it already, will you? But just as I was about to roll said magazine to kill a pesky cockroach crawling on the shower curtain, eerie images popped out from its glossy pages and caught my fancy: extreme marathons?

First, there's 'The Ice Marathon', set on Antarctica, same continent where Agent Fox Mulder found the space ship. Then there's the 'North Pole Marathon', undoubtedly where Santa ran to his massive coronary demise, probably the reason why I didn't get that Aquaman action figure I wrote him about. Up next, the '24-Hour Ultra Marathon' in Namibia, in the desert, which must be a good reason to keep on running for 24 hours. I doubt anyone would want to be left behind by the rest of the imbeciles joining this oddysey. Lastly, the 'Marathon of the Sands' in the Moroccan Sahara. They've pictures of people running behind camels and Bedouins, not far behind, just out of the picture must be the vultures, ready to lap up the unfortunate ones who didn't think they needed THAT much training.

Why in hell would anyone want to go through those extremes just to prove a point to themselves? Fine, you're an amazing athlete, Forrest Gump has nothing on you, you're oozing with all that I-only-feel-alive-when-I'm-dying attitude that you obviously subscribe to, and you're better than all the rest of us slackers, given. But why bother?

*****

Sorry about that rant just now. I don't usually mind other people's business, nor should I. They do things that they enjoy the way I should be doing things that I enjoy. Probably just a bit of bitterness on my part over seeing people having fun when I'm stuck at home bouncing my foamy little stress-ball off the walls. (No it's not fun, just something to do) So why did I bother posting it if I'll only write up an apology in post-script? I have no idea. Must be craving for some attention or something, and bored. Definitely bored.

Dinner joint player

2010-06-30T19:18:00.003+08:00

I'm restless. I dunno if it's the humidity, pressure at the office, hunger, poverty, or the fact that we're all out of coffee. In any case, it sucks. I've tried bouncing my little red ball off the wall for about 5 minutes but it keeps bouncing off my hands and I have to bend over and pick it up off the floor or under the couch. So I stop, it's just not working out.

Ok fine, I thought, I should just try to sit still, stare at a wall and do nothing. Sounds simple enough, maybe even watch moss grow on my discarded coffee grounds collection. But then my mind screams at me to do something, anything at all to break the monotony. It doesn't appreciate that the rest of my body is motionless while it continues to be tortured with boredom. I think of porn, but I wasn't in the mood. (Yes, I never imagined porn could be boring in a million years! I must be sick...) So I play with my lighter, click-clack-click-clack, but that gets old real soon as well. WHAT THE HECK DO I WANT TO DO, ANYWAY?!!

*****

There's this particular area in Surigao City, a street by the docks that are lined with canteens. Every evening, just as dusk settles on this strip, the charcoals are lit, and the city's biggest barbeque-fest ensues. Yes, every evening.

I like going there, everybody in the city seems to go there as well. People walking, riding in on big ass SUV's, alighting trikes and scooters. Maybe it's the cheap food, one could buy half a chicken and a cup of rice there for the price of a McDonald's happy meal. And it doesn't taste bad at all. I frequent one of the larger ones right in the middle of the block, they have airconditioning which not only keeps you from sweating all that chicken oil while you eat it, but also insulates you from the smog that 50 or so charcoal-fired grills make.

One night, while walking to the strip from my hotel, (well, it's actually just a cheap pension house, but I find that calling it a 'hotel' kinda bumps up my stature) I decide that I'm not eating at the same place I usually do, just because I was feeling a bit adventurous.

So I settle into a quaint joint not too far from the usual, they had set tables on the sidewalk and I thought I'd try eating dinner al fresco, and order the usual chicken meal. I must admit, their chicken is tastier that what I'm used to, but in slightly smaller portions. I dig in with gusto, and even order some of their pork barbeque, just to try it out. Just as I was about to let out an after dinner burp of satisfaction, the waitress from the other joint walks up to me from the street and says hi. I stifle my burp, and say hi back. Then she walks to my current waitress and they talk. Apparently, they don't appreciate it when the other establishments 'steal' their regulars.

I try to listen in, straining to understand the dialect with my limited vocabulary. I could only make out that the next time they see me eat there again, they were going to 'steal' their regulars as well.

Now this strikes me as strange. I don't consider myself a regular at the other joint because I'm not from anywhere near this city and only spend 3 or 4 days at a time there in a span of 4 months or so. But apparently, eating dinner 2 nights in a row qualifies me as a regular, and was seduced by this particular whore of a diner. Was I guilty of canteen-adultery?

So my 'ex'-waitress walks back to me and tells me that I should eat back at their place the next time and they'd give me a discount. I just smile and nod my head, because if there's one thing I've learned in dealing with girls (probably the only thing I've ever figured out about them, actually) is that you never ever get in the middle of a catfight. It just gets messier when you do.

A good 5 minutes or so after my 'ex'-waitress had left, I ask for the bill. My current waitress hands it to me, and tells me that I shouldn't be intimidated by my 'ex'-waitress and feel free to come back whenever I liked. Thanks, I say, and settle the matter of the bill, leaving a nice little tip.

I took a trike to Jollibee for dinner the next night.

Oh, and I explicitly told the girl behind the counter this time that I'm just trying things out for myself, I don't think I'm ready to be 'mutually exclusive' with their joint just yet but we should enjoy our time together when we could and see how it goes from there.

Consolation Prize

2010-06-29T22:34:00.004+08:00

So I had a late night yesterday, got home past 3am and woke up way beyond when I should have. When I did wake up, all I could do was bitch about how late I was for my meeting, which was scheduled to have started an hour ago. So I run down to the garage, and I find my car's splash-guard (or whatever that stupid plastic cover underneath the bumper is called) hanging loose and on the concrete. A stupid cat had this great idea to crawl up my car's engine and wreck the darn thing. Someone shoot me now, please?

*****

It's not a total loss, though. The events leading up to me getting home so 'early' was a real eye-opener. (No, I didn't go to a strip club last night...) Turns out, underneath all that tough-as-rusty-nine-inch-friggin'-nails attitude, lesbians are, essentially, just as vulnerable and whiny and bitchy as your regular straight girls.

I bet I had you at lesbian.

*****

So my lesbian friend texted me early yesterday evening for drinks. Sure, I said, what's up? Her girlfriend just dumped her sorry ass. This was gonna be exciting, I thought.

You see, this friend of mine, if she were a straight female, would actually score pretty decent marks on the "hottie-meter", and her ex wasn't too bad either. A few months ago, I went out drinking with the both of them and, well, I kept feeding them alcohol in hopes of watching some real-live girl-on-girl action.

Easy now fellas, no kiss and tell on this post. (I've got another blog for those. *wink wink*. Nah... just kidding.)

*****

I get to the bar first, and order up some light beer (because I was trying to trim down) and tofu. She storms in about 10 minutes later, calls out the waiter, and asks for a man-sized, 'this-ain't-no-sissy-little-lite-beer' brew (Only because moonshine wasn't available, I'm guessing) and a whole batch of bad-ass, deep-fried pork belly.

You could probably surmise that the only reason I'm still on her friend list is because she thinks I'm gay too. Anyway...

So she starts yapping and spewing all sorts of cuss words at her recent ex, her mouth glistening with pork fat and chugging her ice-cold beer in the process. I feign interest, waiting for the opportune time to tell her I'm totally on her side and ask for said ex's number, you know, to give her a piece of my mind, of course. (Am I not such a swell friend?) She goes on, declaring that she didn't need her, that she could walk off the face of the earth for all she cares. She could do better, and will!

She calms down after the fifth beer or so. And we go back to our usual topics, the 'babes', a new piercing she had done last week, this cheapo sleazy bar she discovered, the wisdom within dialectic materialism and such. We got bored, and after some more beers, moved to this cheapo, sleazy bar that she had talked about for some videoke. It was a blast at first, we practically had the mic to ourselves the whole night, and we sang every song we could think up.

Until she chose the song 'Everybody Hurts' as sung by The Corrs, and it all went downhill from there.

Right smack in the middle of the song, around the part where Andrea croons "If you're all alone/in this life...", my lesbian friend had her breakdown. She stutters and sobs how unfair it is that she's all alone, while still holding the mic to her mouth. I would've given a thousand bucks for a video camera right around then.

The next hour was a really long one as you might have guessed:

Her: "She left me, how could she do that to me when I gave her everything?!"
Me: "Let her go, if she comes back, then you'll know it was meant to be."
Her: "But she won't! She said so."
Me: "Don't worry, there are plenty of fish in the ocean."
Her: "But she was the one! I loved her!"
Me: "When God closes a door, He opens a window..."
Her: "I'm gonna get old and be alone and it will be terrible!"
Me: "Every cloud has a silver lining."
Her: "Dude, is that your hand on my ass?!"
Me: "Huh? Of course not. You're probably just a bit drunk."
Her: "Dammit, I wish I never met her! Now I'm such a mess."
Me: "Aww..."
Her: "Dude, what the f**k are you doing?"
Me: "Uh, nothing?...I just thought you could use a hug."
Her: "And your hand just happened to cup a feel?"
Me: "Uh... an accident, I swear..."
Her: "I'll show you an accident!"
Me: "NOT THE FACE, NOT THE FACE!! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NOOOOO!!!"

*****

Despite the 'accidental' black eye, we're still friends of course. I drove her to her apartment and wished her luck. She thanked me for the company, she'd been wanting to punch someone in the face for days, apparently. Told you I'm such a swell friend.

Pre-departure blues

2010-06-28T10:57:00.003+08:00

A few days back, I found myself at the airport again, at the smoking lounge again, sipping over-priced coffee again, wishing I didn't have to get on that flying tin can again. It's a sad, sad situation. (Getting more and more absurd?) Consolation was that I'm not alone in finding myself trapped in such a dreary predicament. The lounge was filled with frequent flyers, salesmen, businessmen and the like. Some working feverishly on their laptops reading or composing emails, others busy talking to clients and bosses on their mobile phones, and others, myself included, just staring into the bottom of our coffee cups, zombie-fied.

I was still recovering from lack of sleep, and about to light another cigarette, when all of a sudden a couple of fellow travelers enter the lounge, boisterously declaring how excited they were to go on vacation. They looked like they were off to some beach, clad in shorts, flip-flops and designer sunglasses. They sat down, ordered some fancy coffee-based concoction, and started taking pictures of themselves. They looked so happy, I hated them. Well, everyone seemed to hate them as well in the lounge. Everybody stopped what they were doing and took a long hard look at the spectacle these lucky bastards had become.

At that very instant, everyone hated their jobs just that tiny bit more.

*****

Still at the airport's smoking lounge, I bumped in to a classmate of mine back in college. He's waiting for his flight as well, so we both grabbed our second cup of coffee and talked shop until boarding time. The first five minutes of the conversation, I kinda realized this might not be a great way to boost my ego. Apparently, he's one of those few lucky ones who managed to make use of whatever he learned in college for his current profession. He's even taking up further studies, ensuring the perfect synergy of education and on the job experience.

Midway through one of his stories, I zone out and try to figure out if my job and degree have anything to do with one another, as expected, zilch.

Now, this presents a valuable insight, did I really need my degree to do my job well? In some minute way, it probably made some tasks a bit easier, but in general, I could've probably dropped out of high school and still be doing the same thing I'm doing today. But what if I chose a job that was related to my education, will that guarantee success in such chosen career? From what I'm hearing out of this guy, the answer seems to be a resounding yes. More options, more opportunities, and a chance to really stand out.

Maybe this guy picked up on my thought bubbles, because the next question I hear from him was if I found it difficult working in a job that was totally unrelated to what we finished in college. So I thought about it, and said no. I wasn't sure if I was lying, but in the first place, I never really worked in a field that was somehow related to what I studied for.

During the flight, I thought about the topic a bit more, and looked to how some of my friends were doing. Apparently, only a small percentage of my friends got into careers that was somehow related to the degrees that they received, but despite it, most of them, if not all of them, were doing alright. I now grow suspicious if college was indeed a waste of time.

Getting my free lunch

2010-06-23T20:45:00.003+08:00

I've made a bet with my boss, I realize this might not be the smartest move... ever, but well, it's already in place. Yes, it has to do with my career, but hey, people have to take risks to move forward. Sure there's this possibility that I'll fall flat on my face and lose the bet, rot in the office or maybe even get fired, but at least it's sort of a change.

Because I need to make some changes.

And it's not only in my career, everything seems to be at a standstill. It's getting boring and monotonous and idle and moot and darn boring all over again. Arrgh! I am sloth, and envy, and damn stubborn.

So maybe responsibility isn't my strong suit, stability not exactly a quality normally attributed to my person, and ingenuity a word outside my 1,000 word vocabulary, so why am I making a bet that I could be all of these with my boss no less? I have no idea, but I think these qualities are supposed to make a better person out of me, probably make me amount to 'something'. To make me believe that all those years of being drunk, spontaneous and clueless in college (and some years after) don't go to waste. (Oh, I was pretty wasted in college, wasn't I?)

What's the bet, you ask? Well, it's quite simple, by the end of the year, it's either I get promoted or get fired. Yep, pretty simple, isn't it? Either way, there's gonna be a lot of changes, for sure.

Now that the bet has been made, what's step 1? I have no idea. This is where the bet get's risky, because I can't think of anything that will save my ass for the next 6 months that I haven't tried in the past 2 years. And sadly, blogging about my predicament sure ain't gonna help me get anywhere near where I need to be, that's for sure. So I need to be all 3 traits I've mentioned earlier to at least get a shot at not being fired, all of which are so out of character for me. I've consulted my imaginary life-coach, and she (Yes, my imaginary life-coach is a woman, with big boobs) tells me that change always comes in oneself first. What a load of bull that is. She further adds that all aspects of my life are connected, so to better my career, I need to better my personal life as well, and get some 'structure', whatever that is. I would have ignored her, if not for her boobs.

Oh, and by coincidence, I've been holding myself to a deadline to resign from work by the first day of next year. Pretty neat, huh?

Well, lots of luck, and even more work for myself, I guess. Because there are no free lunches in life, unless you make it yourself.

The French Fry Kid

2010-06-21T21:13:00.004+08:00

I sat quietly in a corner booth at McDonald's, that one which I pass almost every day on the way to work by the expressway. I had already consumed the Fillet-O-Fish, and was debating the merits of gorging on the french fries, sparklingly golden, undoubtedly unhealthy. As usual, the devil had won, and I began squirting out the red catsup that they provided in those small plastic sachets onto the paper mat on the tray. I held up the first fry, dunked it on the red goop, when suddenly a kid stood on the aisle beside me, looking at me with mouth agape. Selfishly, I quickly put the fry in my mouth and gobbled it up hurriedly, making sure she saw that she was to have none of it. The kid, chubby red cheeks, pig-tailed and wide-eyed, closed her mouth too, seemingly in shock. I let out a squeak of laughter, amused at such innocent honesty.

I looked around, wary of any parent or guardian who would not take my bullying lightly. There was none, which I found rather strange. The child was maybe 3 or 4, too young to be allowed to wander off without supervision.

Without notice, the child started to climb up the seat opposite me. It took her about 10 whole seconds, without any help from me, being afraid people might find my help creepy to say the least. She then props up on her seat and eyes the rest of the fries. "Do you want some?" I ask the obvious. She then extends her pudgy arms towards the crispy golden potato sticks, and picks up a long one. Clumsily, she puts them in her mouth and bites, half of the fry ends up on her lap.

This now poses a dilemma of sorts for me, lest I be construed as a kid-napper, I should take action on the matter, saving the rest of my french fries while I'm at it. I waive to a passing busboy, and ask if someone was looking for their chubby kid who has gone missing. He says none so far, but he'll ask the other staff. I do hope they find the irresponsible parents, I don't think I'd wanna take this kid home with me, she'd starve to death for sure. The busboy scurries off to his comrades, in search of the missing parents.

By this time, the kid is on her third fry, and she still looks hungry. I try to make conversation, hoping to buy some time enough to save some of my food for myself. "What's your name?" She looks up at me, but the fourth french fry was still well on its way to her mouth anyway. This is going to be a bit tricky.

The busboy returns, with the manager in tow. "Hi sir, so she's not yours?" she asks. I pan my face left to right to left, she was on to something, I hope. "Hi little girl, where's your mommy and daddy?" The kid looks at her, then suddenly realizes that she's with strangers, and looks around in a frenzy in search of the familiar. I was expecting her to cry just about then, but I have to give it to her, she's one tough cookie.

The little girl then climbs down from her seat, and goes on in search of what is presumably her mommy and daddy, with the two McDonald's employees tailing her. My fries are safe at last!

Of course, I don't touch my food just yet, not wanting to risk catching anything, like say, cooties. I'd want to take a look at the parents first before I resume my meal, that's for sure. I watch as the trio walk out of the joint and disappear around the corner. Good luck kiddo!

The busboy returns a couple of minutes later, to give me an update on the pint-sized offender. Apparently, the mother went to the restroom then stopped by the convenience store for some items, the dad was still in the van with the rest of the family, and both of them thought the toddler was with the other. Mystery solved, great, I can finish my meal now. As I took control of what remained of my fries, I look at the now empty seat in front of me and wonder, where the heck did my drink go?

Jogging thoughts

2010-06-20T16:58:00.005+08:00

I'm waiting for my jogging buddy, here at home. Most of the chores around the house are done, even the tent has been sunned and aerated, rid of sand and neatly tucked into its carrying bag. I didn't even wait for the little sister to come home and take out the garbage. That's right, everything is neatly back in its proper order.

Well, almost everything.

There's still the issue of whether I should continue the rent on my house for another year, I'm still undecided about what to do with it. On one hand, in light of my new goal to maximize my income and achieve my goal of renovating my parent's house within the next two years, I figure I can no longer afford it and should look for a cheaper house. On the other hand, I like it here. Sure, sounds simple enough, move to another house (or back to my parents even) and learn to like it as well, but I have some reservations about it.

Jogging buddy's here... no time to think! Gotta run!

*****

And am back. It's midnight. No, we didn't jog until midnight. Yes we ate dinner after the 6pm jog. No, alcohol was not involved. Yes, some cigarettes. No, not immediately after the jog, but after dinner. No, we didn't go to some sleazy bar after dinner. Yes, that would've been fun, though. No, we really didn't. No, I didn't suggest that we go to a sleazy bar. No, I didn't think he suggested it either. Yes, if he asked I would have given it some thought. No, 'giving it some thought' is not a yes. (Shut up! You're not Mom!)

*****

So while I was jogging, some girl in full racing attire (including the requisite iPod strapped on her bicep) managed to overtake me. (Easily, yes, she overtook me easily. I should probably have added that.) I didn't mind at first, of course, but while I was admiring her 'build', her cellular phone rang. (Yes, she had her cell phone strapped on her somewhere) She answers, and proceeded to have a 3 minute conversation over her phone, WHILE JOGGING. Darn! I'm sorry I couldn't tell you anything about the conversation because while she was talking over the phone, I couldn't catch what she was talking about over the sound of myself choking on her dust. Despite holding a full conversation, I she was still pulling away from me pretty easily. Wow... how pathetic is that?

If that was me talking on the phone while jogging, I'd probably sound really sleazy, breathing heavily on the mouthpiece with my voice sounding rasp and creepy.

To preserve any dignity that I had left, I was tempted to stop, look for a rock, lob it straight at her phone and run away in the opposite direction. But I was scared, she could definitely outrun me, and am also pretty sure she'd be able to beat me up. Well, it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway, I was so out of breath and weak at that point that the rock would probably slip through my fingers and fall down on my foot, killing all my toenails in the process.

Could I still jog with dead toenails?

Playing with fire

2010-06-19T14:16:00.003+08:00

A friend gave me a lighter, a Zippo knock-off, same dimensions, same mechanism, same click-clack sound, and even the weight is pretty close. It's awesome! I woke up this morning and instantly fiddled with it, filled it up with lighter fluid and gave it a go. It friggin' works! Woohoo!

I think Zippo lighters are just bad-ass. It's the Harley-Davidson of lighters, masculine, shiny and noisy. No, they're not the most efficient, not exactly convenient to use and refill, and is a step back in terms of technological wonders. But there's this sense of nostalgia that comes with it, plus it looks cool, to boot. No wonder the bad guys we see in movies always seem to use one, must be why they get all the slutty chicks. I bet Chuck Norris has one.

So ok, mine isn't exactly a Zippo. It's a cheap knock-off, with the rust on the inside of the supposedly stainless steel case to prove it. When it finally conks out, when the screw on the underside of the chamber gives in to its eventual rusty demise, there may not be a chance to revive it, but who cares? It's free, and it's mine!

Prior to this new toy of mine, I've actually been contemplating on getting an actual Zippo for myself. Each time I'd pass by a Zippo store or one of those Lighter's Galore kiosks, I find myself gravitating towards the shiny, heavy stainless-steel ones, my nose and forehead smudging the glass viewing case in awe. There's also those matte finished ones, which are kinda nice to the touch. I'm pretty sure one could have their names or monograms or whatever symbol etched on either side of one, now that would just be so classy. Unfortunately, it costs an arm and a leg, even the really plain-looking ones, and given the lackluster state of my personal finances, an unwise purchase.

I'd probably have to mention that this isn't the first Zippo (or knock-off) that I've owned. In a previous life, two exes had given me one each. Too bad though that I had promptly returned both (I think) back after the break-ups. I've also had a cheap knock-off once or twice, but these were grossly inferior to the one I now have.

So the question becomes, does this new toy of mine satisfy my craving for the genuine article? Fortunately yes, for now. Up until the time, at least, when this faux version becomes kaput or I stumble upon a really really good bargain. Or perhaps I might altogether quit smoking and render the "need" for such an item moot. In the meantime, I'll be that irritating jackass making all that click-clack ruckus with his cheap knock-off Zippo.

Bye-bye FB!

2010-06-14T23:41:00.002+08:00

After weeks of agonizing about it, tonight I have finally mustered enough resolve to do it. I quit facebook.

But wait... what is this? So many questions to deactivate my own account? Well okay, I'll play along...

Holy cow! Security check?! Fine fine...

There. Now let's try if it worked... logging in...

Motherfather!!! I activated my account again by just logging in? Isn't there a deactivated permanently button here somewhere??

Okay, let's do the deactivation thing one more time...

So okay, I'm deactivated... again. Now let's ask someone if they can still see my account...

Crap! I'm still on facebook?! You have gotta be kidding me!!!

*****

First of all, the reason I wanted to quit facebook? Because it's eating up a large chunk of my already pathetic, quasi-existent life. You get the email notifications that someone tagged a photo of you, so you check your account and then the whole album. After that, you automatically look to see the status messages of your friends, then you scroll down... then click on the "see other comments" button. Then you scroll down some more, see more comments, then click on "Older posts". But you're not satisfied and check out other people's albums, their trips to wherever the heck they went to and even expand to other links on youtube, flickr, imgur, collegehumor and what-have-yous. Before you know it, it's past your bed time and you wake up late, skipping breakfast and rush your reports for that 9am meeting you hadn't prepared for because you opened facebook as soon as you opened your computer. Thanks Zuckerberg, or whatever the heck your name is.

Then there's the alleged privacy thing. Well, I guess I don't really think it's a problem for me personally, not really being too big on the conspiracy theories. But of course, there are certain rights to privacy that I believe in (which make stalking all the more fun, mind you), so I'm not a big fan of "internet rape" either.

The biggest reason, I suppose, would be that I want to take my life back. There was a time when I wanted to go out to see the world, or my neighborhood, at least. Hang out at a friend's house, see things for myself and make memories that I would cherish for a lifetime. These darn social networking sites have somehow taken the luster out of such discoveries. I see people posting new restaurants, beaches and resorts and I want to go there as well, following the herd. I keep forgetting that some of my favorite places were clumsily stumbled upon, because I got lost or just wandered aimlessly to nowhere.

*****

Okay okay, I can hear your protestations from here. Fine, it's all me, my fault, my bad. I could still do all those things I miss despite facebook, I get it. Still, imagine yourself bored at home, and you flip open your computer and log on to facebook, what do you see? You see what other people have posted, then you think to yourself, that might be fun. And you go out and do it, or reconnect with friends and feel good and think what a productive time you had. Sure I could think of it that way, but I prefer to be so bored and frustrated that I am forced to act on it by actually going out of the house and try to do something on my own. For me (yes me, the selfish prick that I am), that's how life happens, is supposed to happen, serendipitously.

As a pre-deactivation experiment, I vowed not to open facebook for more than an hour a day. I could be bored and doing nothing but I wouldn't touch the computer on this long weekend. So let's recap...

Friday: Work, then went out to whack some balls at the driving range. Then had a couple (okay, more) of beers with a friend and his girlfriend and her sister at some bar that I used to frequent but haven't been to in 7 years.

Saturday: Went for a jog, had lunch at this quaint little Persian joint, did some groceries, then played school bus and fetched people to go to a friend's place for some poker and lots of beer.

Sunday: Did a myriad of chores around the house, arranged the furniture, made a proper lunch, started cleaning my golf clubs, went out for a jog with a friend, stopped by the friend's place to chow on dimsum and watch a DVD.

Monday: Caught up with my reading, made another proper lunch, continued cleaning the golf clubs, went out with some friends for some "girl talk" and dinner, watched a little television then deactivated all my social networking accounts.

Okay, so it wasn't that exciting of a weekend. But the alternate itinerary would look something like this:

Friday: Facebook at work, then get some take out, then facebook at home.

Saturday: Facebook, fry some chow, facebook while woofing down the oily food, facebook some more, then play poker and drink.

Sunday: Facebook, fry some chow, facebook while woofing dawn some more oily food, maybe jog, then facebook.

Monday: Can you guess what I'm doing today?

A little exaggerated, granted, but you kinda get the point, don't you? No? Well, the point is, I get to do more stuff without facebook around as a default activity. Sure, I might spend the whole afternoon just going to the park or a coffee shop, but at least I got out of the house, where I open myself to the opportunity of something, anything out of the ordinary to happen. Even when I'm just at home, freeing myself from the shackles of facebook fun made me give an effort to chores and getting creative with lunch.

The fact is, the hours I've been spending on facebook has been increasing to the point of being an addiction. The most pathetic point of which is the "challenge" to think up a snazzy new status message, or get a great photo to post for others to see, or post links of that great "discovery" you found about a talking dog.

So I guess I lose touch with the hundreds of contacts I had, a tenth (or less) of which I have any actual interactions with. The price of independence, I guess.

High treason

2010-06-14T02:01:00.003+08:00

I'm feeling a little sentimental. Why? Was it because I watched the movie "Kick Ass" a few minutes ago? Or jogging in the rain a few hours ago? Maybe because I rearranged the furniture at home? Hmm... really I've no idea. Anyway, to celebrate this current mood of mine, I click on youtube.com and search for Jewel's "Foolish Games". Ahh... a brandy right about now would be super.

But of course I won't be drinking. I just about swore off alcohol on Sundays, as well as most of the week. Only Fridays and Saturdays are decreed as legal alcohol-drinking days. Yes, it kinda sucks, but it's the healthy choice. With my buddies felled one by one by the curse of a fat liver, the convenience of not having to undergo any medication is tantamount to my personal financial freedom.

So maybe that's it, I miss alcohol. I realize I have to move on, but how do you move on from something that has been there for you each significant moment, whether in sadness or joy? Sounds a bit like high treason if you ask me. Here I am, turning my back on the one thing that has always been there for me, asking not for much, but giving its all in return. I can only hide my face in shame.

No, it doesn't stop there. My weaknesses as a person has brought me to previously unheard of lows in my quest for a cheap fling to fill in for a beloved. While my alcoholic lover agonizes in a frustrating wait, here I am, whiling away my time with coffee. Yes, I am having an affair with coffee, that cheap slut of a beverage that does not even have the pedigree of having being carefully fermented in the perfect proportions for centuries by scientists, monks and priests alike. Even Jesus must have known this, else why would he have turned water into wine rather than water into coffee? (or tea for that matter)

So why coffee, of all the other possible concoctions and brews available? Well, because it's cheap, for one. And it's unbelievably easy, no frills, just "slam-bang-thank-you-ma'am", doing away with all the drama and the usual pre-requisites. It's always a done deal, and there's no 3-date (bottle) waiting period for you to have your way with it. Just a couple of sips and you get what you came for.

Yes, I do feel bad about it. But I am human after all, with needs, a whole lot of them. Who knows, in time I might realize how much of a mistake parting ways, albeit temporarily, with alcohol is. At the moment, though, I've made my bed with coffee and intend to sleep with it. (Or more likely, NOT sleep with it.)

This is why I'm drinking brandy at 5 in the morning...

2010-06-12T07:41:00.004+08:00

I dreamt that my building was on fire. Outside of my window, I could see the glow of the yellow-red flames licking the glass. I tried the door, but somehow the heat had deformed it, so that it stuck itself to the frame. I leaned into it, but the door was getting hotter, and I couldn't touch it without risking second-degree burns. Uh-oh. Then I remember the fire escape, which is really the first thing you ought to be thinking about in case of fire. And hooray, I was in the relative safety of the outside world.

And you would've thought I'd woken up at this point? Fortunately not.

Glancing around, I saw a couple of "friends", Lili and Cheche, sisters, barely in their twenties, and they were smiling at me. Apparently, I lost my shirt somehow, and the fire had made me sweat like a pig. I was ashamed, my man-boobs and pot belly would likely turn them off. But they were still smiling at me, and "checking me out". I looked down at myself and... whaddyaknow, rock hard pecs and abs were on me, glistening in my sweat and bronzed by the heat of the fire! (At this point I had a sneaky suspicion that this was indeed a dream, but who's complaining!?)

So I engaged in some chit-chat, making sure I'd tense my abs and biceps every once in a while, impressing them. (actually, I was more impressed with myself that they were) After about 5 minutes of talking about what a coincidence all this was, I prevailed upon them, yes both of them, to check out my crib, which by now was magically restored to its old, lackluster condition prior to the fire.

Now, lounging around at my pad, we were enjoying some white wine while munching on grapes (funny, I've never had grapes in the pad before), laughing at the most mundane things, like how I was fat just yesterday, and how they were wearing pajamas all of a sudden. We were in the middle of a discussion about Leo Tolstoi's 'War and Peace', my contribution to which was all bullshit as I haven't read the damn book yet, when Lili cracked the slightest of yawns. Go time.

I asked them if they would like to sleep over, seeing as how they were already in their jammies and all. They looked at each other, smiled and nodded their approval. (Don't you dare wake up, don't you dare!!!) I led them to my bedroom, which was somehow decked in black and red leather, and announced that I was sleeping on the couch. Of course they objected, and said (in unison) that I was welcome to join them... leaving a small space sandwiched between them for me. (I thank you Lord, for these thy gifts...)

Of course at this point... I woke up, in the real world, all alone in bed, all man-boobs and pot belly. I forced my eyes shut, but only darkness greeted me. This sucks bigtime.

The disapperance of the flower pot

2010-06-10T20:06:00.004+08:00

Things are starting to get a bit hectic lately that I've resorted to jotting stuff down on that ancient daily organizer of mine. The workload is starting to wear me down, with absolutely no help from my newly-implemented diet regimen. Welcome to the mid-year!

*****

Someone stole my ashtray today. On the third floor of our building, right outside on the front deck, there's this empty terra-cota flower pot that I use as an ashtray. The former resident, a leafy, thorny plant, had succumbed to the intense heat of this summer and had wilted and died a slow, agonizing death. It was then that I discovered a new use for it's home, and made cigarette breaks a bit more convenient, doing away with the need to flick my extinguished cigarette butts as far as I could, over the 12-foot wall, down to the asphalt on the street.

For over a month, that little pot had been a good friend to me, swallowing my excesses without so much as a peep out of it. The soil within it had disappeared under a sea of gold-banded white filter-tips, with the occasional half-consumed hard candy or gum. Some days, I made a game out of flicking my still glowering roach into it, waiting to see if it will ignite the other filters into a smoky inferno. On other days, I'd take aim with my empty crumpled soft-pack and try a 15-foot jumper, deliberately "boarding" against the wall behind it.

This morning however, as I lit up and took my first few drags, the pot was gone. I scanned around the deck, hoping it was some improbable game of hide-and-seek, but it was nowhere. I walked around, interrogating the other pots and the plants they harbored, but no one would admit having anything to do with nor having a clue about the pot-napping. I kicked over the spiny cactus (or is it cacti?), hoping to strike fear into the other plants, but still, no one budged. This came at a time when my cancer stick was down to its last couple of millimeters, and I could feel a panic coming to my person.

Alas, I dragged the last breath out of the cigarette, and stubbed out the remaining embers underneath my left shoe. Now what?

Dejected, I let loose a couple of curses before turning around and opened the door back into the building. As soon as I got in, I closed the door, and chucked the cigarette carcass into the garbage bin behind it.

Post No. 200

2010-06-09T22:44:00.000+08:00

...

Playing 501's

2010-06-09T21:24:00.003+08:00

I went to a friend's house on account of an overdue loan. Didn't really expect to linger long, the whole business was in-and-out. For some reason, though, they offered me coffee on a hot and balmy evening, so I stayed. Then, it hit me, they had a dart board in the garage, complete with scoreboard. Interesting...

Now, darts is another game familiar to me only because my dad used to play it. We had a dartboard at home, in fact, though through the years, it has been reduced to a mere artifact to provide color to an otherwise bland wall. Tragic as that may sound, it was entirely my fault. In college, I sold off my dad's darts in pursuit of beer and gin money. So without the darts, there was little use for the board, as you can imagine.

Back to my friend's place, the allure of the dartboard had me staring at it, literally at the bull's eye, which was in pristine, virginal condition. In a flash (which at my leisurely pace is anywhere from 2-5 minutes), I had my fingers pulling out the darts, which were scattered across the board (the last player was a really poor mark, I'm guessing). I walked past the black line on the floor and surveyed the distance between me and the red triple-20, spent time finding my best footing without leaning too much across the line, and let the first dart fly. I missed by a centimeter, I still had it, great! The next two darts found themselves hurled in a nice little array, precise, but a little off on the accuracy. I needed practice, obviously, but not bad after a long lay-off.

So it's an omen.

You see, the past 3 weeks, I've been spotting this bar at the Home Depot Center which features dart tournaments every other night. I didn't fancy joining it, of course, but was mildly amused that there was a place these 'darters' could still play. I was watching one of the players fiddle around with his darts, interchanging shafts and flights, trying get the right balance. Sure, he probably could have spent all that time doing other more productive things, but he looked like he was having a fairly good amount of fun.

Now my mind's all made up, I'm going to the folk's place and stealing that dartboard (conveniently, the folks are on vacation). Then I'm buying darts, maybe a set of cheap tungsten ones, then get about 3 sets of flights and shafts to play around with.

Hmm, the problem now is, where do I set up the board?

"It's for your own good" and other classic lies

2010-06-02T00:32:00.010+08:00

Sure, they're older, wiser and you owe them a lot, but dads sure have a lot of explaining to do once we wise up to the blatant lies that they've been selling us growing up. When you're a kid, you think your dad is nothing short of super, and you get into fights because the other kid tells you that his dad is better than your dad. Then you become a teenager and suddenly "super-dad" becomes "the-old-geezer-who-wouldn't-let-you-go-out-with-the-cool-kids". This is when the afternoon long lectures become a daily routine around the house. Well, it's time to expose the lies...

1. "I didn't smoke nor drink until I had a job to buy it myself!"

Yeah yeah... so you keep saying. But seriously, you didn't think we kids would find out about those old college pictures? Particularly the one where you're guzzling down a beer bong while holding a stick of cigarette? Wait, that'a not even a cigarette?!

2. "When I was your age, I never gave your grandpa any reason for him to hit me!"

Then I wonder why everytime grandpa unfastens his belt, you seem to break out a cold sweat and stop whatever your doing? It's also kinda odd that when grandpa was shouting at the referee on television about a bad call, you suddenly bolted out of the living room like a rocket and hid behind the sofa.

3. "I only hit you because I love you"

Fat chance any teen-aged boy ever fell for that one, bub. Let's face facts, there are probably a gazillion reasons that dads hit their sons when they're in their teens, from letting the car run out of gas to using his electric razor to trim hairs from "other" regions. Love simply isn't ever going to be one of them.

4. "After you're done cleaning the car, THEN I'll think about letting you use it."

Some things, you just have to learn the hard way, I guess.

5. "If you tell me the truth, I won't get mad."

Now, let's take a second to really think about this statement. There is just no way you're ever going to get away from this one, right? On one hand, you don't tell him the fact that your bike accidentally (of course) scratched the finish of his precious car, and he'll assume it was you anyway, and is extra pissed that you tried to hide it and get your whipping, as usual. On the other, you go all George Washington and confess, driving him nuts 9 different ways until he can't stand it and take it out on your ass anyway because....

6. "It's for your own good."

Okay, we get the point, our bad. We even tell them we'll never (consciously) do it again, and mean it, too. Can we move on and forget about it? Of course, not! Humiliation and pain are the best ways to educate sons, according to most fathers. It builds character and all that crap, and character is great way to get to "good-ness" apparently. The only "good" I can gather from this experience is that our daddies get to release their pent up stress. Makes you wish he took up a hobby or a sport, instead.

7. "I never lied when I was a kid."

Are you serious? You have got to be kidding me. I've got to give grandpa a call sometime.

8. "The guy at the store says that's the most popular shoe they've got!"

No dad, this dorky 'Dragonfly' isn't the most popular basketball shoe since, well, ever. And no, Michael Jordan didn't wear these here shoes to win any championships, you cheap bastard.

9. "It's the same thing!"

In what parallel universe is a Sony Playstation the same thing as that brick-game?

10. "When I was your age, I had 10 girlfriends!"

Now that's just unfair if it were true. That has to be a lie!

Pepper talk

2010-05-31T01:39:00.003+08:00

Yes, two posts in a row. That's why endorphins and boredom don't mix...

*****

Me and my buddy were downing cold ones in a bar one early evening. We had just come from a christening, I was a godfather to a cute baby girl (Good luck, kid. I am probably the worst godparent in history). We were still full from the reception that followed, but the munchies set in on me, and I had to get a nibble.

I scanned the menu, and found TNT, a fancy name for stuffed green peppers. This was one of the more popular new barchows among the cheap watering holes. Typically, the green peppers were stuffed with cheese then wrapped in spring roll wrappers before being deep fried. It was usually mildly hot, the green peppers not really as potent as their red cousins, but had enough of a kick to put the exclamation point on a gulp cold beer. So I called the waiter, and ordered a batch.

It came, and it was a tad different from what we were used to. This wasn't wrapped, it was sliced partially open, then stuffed with ground meat and melted cheese, the green of the pepper still gleaming in its spicy glory. Excitedly, my buddy took the first bite, immediately after which he chugged down half a bottle of beer to suppress the fire burning in his mouth. It was effin' hot, I guess. I guess that should have been my cue to send it back to the kitchen, to be shoved down the chef's throat, instead I took a bite. Wow, it was effin' hot! (Hooray for Captain Obvious!) We suspect that had it been deep fried, the cooking oil would probably had taken out some of the natural oils that made the peppers hot, but since this was seemingly baked, all those essential oils were still there.

Out of sheer pride, we finished the whole plate anyway, downing half a dozen beers in the process. There were 6 peppers in all, I was sweating like crazy the whole time. You probably guessed that we didn't order the same thing again, of course we didn't. We got peanuts, plain, boring old peanuts. Peanuts are not hot, they're pretty bland if unsalted, they're the safe bet, and not hot. (Yes, that needed repetition)If a single piece of pepper were served along with our peanuts, we would have gone straight to the kitchen and fashioned out a new a-hole for the chef.

Moral of the Story: When embarking on a drinking session, check your pride at the door. This saves you a lot of inconvenience, and generally promotes better health.

Alternate Moral of the Story: Peppers of any color are hot, stupid!

Run for your underwear!

2010-05-30T22:39:00.004+08:00

Went out for a nice evening jog, when suddenly the skies conveniently opened up and decided to drench me and my underwear half a kilometer from the nearest shelter. So I ran as fast as I could, my heart racing with every footfall, struggling to gulp down the heavy, damp air, all for the sake of keeping my undies dry. I didn't time my run for shelter, but I bet it wasn't impressive to say the least, as I saw grandpa and grandma zoom past me in their walkers.

You see, this particular jogging trail was a long ways from home, and I forgot to bring extra underwear and shorts. If I didn't keep my shorts dry somehow, there was a huge possibility that my friend, whose car I hitched in on, would disown me and literally leave me "out to dry". I've jogged in the rain before, it's a great feeling, but I'll bet walking the whole 15 kilometers home soaking wet after jogging at night isn't a good idea.

*****

This morning, still lazy to get up from bed, I started reading. That didn't last for very long, because though I love the author, I can't stand reading him, it felt weird. The author in question is (ahem) myself, and I was reading a collection of posts from this very blog, a birthday gift from a close friend (Thanks again, Jean!)

Why it felt weird, I have no idea. Maybe because reading back you see each and every grammar and spelling mistake that you made, or because it felt vain, or perhaps it was some literary form of incest. I try to picture some authors reading their own work, I conjured up an image of Mr. Hemingway, seated in a cafe somewhere in Paris, reading his own book, isn't that just wrong?

Back when we were kids, my sisters and I loved recording our voices on tape and grabbed every chance to belt out our favorite Sesame Street chorus or the occasional Menudo or Spandau Ballet track. It was fun, sure, until mom found the tapes and played it for the amusement of other grown ups. It was petrifying, listening to your own voice squawking "Rubber Ducky" (Ernie) or "Explosion" (Menudo) or "The Rainbow Connection" (Kermit) and hearing these adults laugh their guts out. We'd squeal our objections, throwing tantrums while were at it, anything just to make the torture end. In the same way, reading my own stuff gives me goose bumps, wondering if the people reading it were laughing with me or at me.

I took the time to find the "delete" button for this blog... you know, just in case.

*****

Went people-watching (translation: ogling hot girls) while having dinner at a mini-mall. Interestingly, the adjacent table, four girls, were people-watching as well (translation: ogling men). So I multi-tasked, people-watching while eavesdropping.

Turns out, there's a world of difference as to how men and women people-watch. When men do it, it's only about looks and sex-appeal. Women, meanwhile, seem to be reading a curriculum vitae and a bank statement when they watch other people. For instance, shoes are apparently a major category from which women base their opinion of guys. While any man would relish owning Kobe's Nike basketball shoes, it's just a normal rubber-soled shoe for the ladyfolk, which indicate a guy's immaturity. Same goes for wearing basketball jerseys, baseball caps, baggy pants, and unkept hair. The women favor leather shoes, or those expensive sneakers, because according to them, it's classy. (Huh?) Man-purses are okay as well, as long as they aren't waist-bags (which are dorky, fyi). Lugging around a small three-fold umbrella and/or a backpack? Not a good sign, golf umbrellas are the way to go, because it's terribly hard to fit those parasols on the bus or jeepney, and you won't carry around that backpack if you had the convenience of a passenger's seat or trunk.

For guys, a girl could wear wooden clogs, elephant pants, a feather in a cap and a really large bag for all we care, as long as she's hot and flirty-looking. Just seeing a hot chick throw a wink our way, we'd be re-enacting the great flood with our drool. And her wallet won't matter too much because, well, no one likes girls who are high-maintenance anyway.

Oh, if you happen to be a guy who loves shirts from Spoofs Unlimited, you're probably going to land pretty low on the totem pole. And wearing that shirt from "the Ateneo" or DLSU isn't going to get you higher either unless you look like you're at least distantly related to either Chris Tiu or Simon Atkins. (I'm currently burning my green and white shirt as I type this)

Another interesting insight, girls judge both guys and girls. Guys, on the other hand, see only girls. We manage to block other guys out of our line of sight, along with mangy dogs, shopping carts and trash bins. Oh, and we also don't see the shorts that girls wear under their skirts, we try to see past them, pretending we caught a glimpse of their undies.

On this note, I'd conclude that girls (at least those four) are more evil than men. Sure, we eye women as we would our steak (medium rare, please!), but at least we don't judge them based on their material possessions and social status.

*****

The differences between men and women people-watching might probably be a direct result of typical Darwinian selection. Girls could be more inclined to choose partners with the ability to sustain them and their future brood, while men need only partners who make them want to, uh, "breed" more often.

Funny you should ask...

2010-05-27T16:12:00.004+08:00

I should have started writing this post half an hour ago, I turned on the computer, logged-in, and started staring at the blank page when all of a sudden, I spied the peanut jar just sitting there, coaxing me. I paused and focused on it, their shiny dark skins were peppered with small crystals of salt, I could almost smell the roasted garlic and taste the spicy oil that coated each one. My hands moved away from the keyboard and reached for it, the clear jar slightly cool to the touch, and with opposable thumbs, the lid came undone... exposing the delectable treats for my satisfaction. Yummy.

Now that that's over and done with...

*****

No thanks to beer and fast-food, I'm once again moving up the scales. I'm using stress as an excuse this time, because it's vague and almost everyone complains about it once in a while, making it absolutely convenient. So after much procrastination, I've decided to do something about it by way of another diet plan. Less carbs and no dinner, that should do the trick in a month or so. Any questions?

Q: So how about evenings out for beer with friends?
A: Beers are exempted from the moratorium on carbs, and beer nights are not considered dinner. So unless I eat my friends to go with the beers, there should be no problem.

Q: Do you plan to exercise along with the diet?
A: I always plan to exercise, In fact, I planned on exercising just 5 minutes ago.
Q: So did you?
A: Hell no, planning to exercise is tiring enough already.

Q: How much have you gained, anyway?
A: Chug down a whole case of beer in 3 consecutive nights, you'll get the answer.

Q: Why diet? You're perfect the way you are!
A: Yes I am. But you know, sometimes it's nice to feel imperfect, so humanizing.

Q: What foods do you recommend is best for breakfast and lunch?
A: Food that once lived, roamed the land or seas, then died a bloody death.

Q: Are there any other exemptions to the no-carb rule other than beer?
A: There are a lot, in fact. Other alcoholic beverages with the exception of girly mixed drinks are okay. Also, 'halo-halo' is not considered carbs. Pizza, if of the thin crust variety, is also exempted for as long as they're generously topped with bits and pieces of dead animals.

Q: So what about bar chow? Beers are great with bar chow, aren't they?
A: Yes they are, but I only limit myself to the non-"carby" ones. And peanuts.

Q: Why are peanuts okay?
A: Do you really want to know?
Q: Yes.
A: Cause they make you poop.

Q: Isn't this an unhealthy way of losing weight?
A: Getting hit by a car while jogging is unhealthy as well.

Q: Why not go to the gym?
A: First, because they cost an arm and a leg. Second, they don't serve beer.

Q: What's your motivation for losing weight?
A: You, fatty.

Q: What's your target weight?
A: When my bathroom scale stops yelling at me to get off.

Q: Any thoughts on liposuction?
A: I hate needles, and what is it really but a really big one? Plus, it costs an arm, a leg and my left nut.

Q: What's the first thing you're going to do when you get down to your desired weight?
A: Order everything they've got at McDonald's for a midnight snack.

Career Day

2010-05-26T19:15:00.002+08:00

Apparently, I’ve been with the same company for nearly a decade, which I guess is just barely enough time to say that I know a thing or two about it. This doesn’t guarantee, of course, that I know my job well enough, probably why I receive the same whipping from my boss on a weekly basis. (Obviously, this week isn’t looking any rosier)

Interestingly enough, I was writing down the company history for a brochure I’m putting out when it dawned on me that in over 3 decades that the company has existed, there have been 3 “eras” that it has gone through, 3 generations with different sets of backgrounds that have held the reins of how the company sells itself.

Okay, fair warning, this is a really boring post where I talk about work and stuff that you don’t really give a crap about. There, now that that’s out of the way…

*****

Back in the day, when I was literally just a microscopic sperm cell in my dad’s nether areas, the company was founded by one man, with a strong sense of destiny. He was a metallurgist, with big dreams of turning dirt to gold, (or steel, or ferronickel, or bronze, or silver, or whatever he could sell, really) waiting for his chance to exploit his stellar education and bourgeoisie background to become a famous and highly regarded industrialist. So he put his name on the wall, and took on all takers. It didn’t matter what they asked him to do, as long as they paid him, it was going to be done.

He was successful at first, he peddled his name around and found friends and acquaintances who gave him projects here and there. One sweetheart deal after another, his fame and riches grew, banking on the Old Boy’s Club, of which he was a card-carrying member, of course. He soon found himself a millionaire, with a staff of professionals at his beck and call and pursuing his dream of even more fame and riches.

Soon though, a revolution was brewing, and when it came, he found his Old Boy’s Club in shambles. His friends, which were his best clients, had hied off elsewhere, taking their money and power with them. Now, the work came in trickles, and this was barely enough to pay the staff. One by one they left him, until he had but a handful of his most loyal employees with him. When the money wasn’t enough to pay them, he gave them promises of a better future with the company, giving them their very own stake in his name.

From out of this mess, one of his chemists took it upon herself to come up with a solution. She called on her colleagues, fellow chemists working in different companies and asked how her company could find work for them. They told her of a new field that was new to the industry but was about to get big, and soon, the company shifted from alchemy to environmental testing. She came to her boss with this new direction, and in a short time, work was flowing back into the company again. So began her era at the helm.

For the next two decades, the company grew slowly but surely. The fraternity of chemists had sustained it with small but continuous work, each looking out for one another, and as long as each delivered their own end of the bargain, an age of progress and stability came forth. She made sure every client got everything they asked for and more, that the lab was humming as a well oiled machine would, and everybody was happy.

She had climbed the corporate ladder to oversee the whole company, with the old boss content to play golf with his buddies, see his name still in bold letters across the façade of the building, and collect his dividends. Of course every once in a while he’d show up and make sure everything was going smoothly, but for the most part, she ran the show and ran it well. That is until they realized that progress was ironically about to tear them to pieces.

You see, as the company grew, more and more people took notice of how successful it was. Thus, more and more people thought it would be a wonderful idea to do the same thing! Soon, the company’s piece of the pie got smaller and smaller, nearing disastrous proportions as the shrinking pie would eventually fail to satiate the company’s growing appetite. Prices were dropping to keep up with the competition, but no new business was coming in. The new boss needed help, and they needed it fast.

Several attempts to get another warm body to stem the tide fell in vain. They first looked to the guild of chemists to recruit somebody from the inside that would give them an advantage in securing sweetheart deals, but this didn’t work. Lab rats, by nature, were bereft of the natural instinct to feed off the work of others. Next, they tried to look for professional sales people to bring in a bigger piece of the pie, but these animals were too greedy, wanting more of the pie for themselves rather than sharing it with the others. So that didn’t work out either.

Then, as panic ensued, the boss-founder stepped in to get a handle on the whole situation. He knew what he was looking for, a species of sewer rat, with the lowest morals, easily trained to steal and cheat, possessed with a cunning ability to weasel his way out of the tightest spots through deceit and lies, yet dumb enough to live off crumbs. So he hired me.

It was chaotic at first, the lab rats detested this sleazy dark creature which did nothing but grow his balls (figuratively) and snooze the day away (literally). I was put under the charge of the new boss while mentoring under the old one. While the new boss didn’t want anything to do with me, the old boss was honing my inherent skills as a lowlife, instinctively feeling that this was the new direction that the company needed to take.

Eventually, I was tasked to get more clients. I didn’t for the life of me know how, but I tried anyway. Of course, I failed the few first hundred times, and basically collected crumbs for nothing. This was about to change to everyone’s surprise, though, even myself.

While in the past 2 decades, the company made sure it did the best it could on what it did, I on the other hand, realized how easier it was to do what the company didn’t. I subcontracted all the work that we didn’t do, and made it look as if we did it ourselves. For the same lazy reason that I did everything else I did, it was a heck of a lot easier this way. Because of the overhead that our company was burdened with in comparison to our smaller upstart competition, I couldn’t win any new projects based on price alone. To win I had to regale them with our technical superiority and unparalleled quality. Of course, I had no idea how to do that on my own given I wasn’t a lab rat nor even remotely familiar with what the company did exactly, so fat chance. I found the only jobs I could win were those that we didn’t do, primarily because that meant the competition didn’t do those as well. So all I had to do was look for someone who could do what was required, pass the work on to them, add a sizable margin of profit, and pass it off as if we did it ourselves. Simple, easy and best of all, it worked!

Is that evil? To some extent, perhaps, but it is a business and not a public service so all’s fair.

Well anyway, I did get the hang of the business, but not of what we actually did, and this started the new thrust of the company under this evil new direction. It wasn’t about the Old Boy’s network and sweetheart deals, nor about colleagues helping one another out, this is cutthroat competition at its most basic. I was exploiting the people that did all the work and selling them to the highest bidder. Quality of service and all that crap took a backseat to how to get the other guy’s money in the most efficient and cost-effective way possible. Threading the thin line between satisfying and disillusioning the customer is the real challenge, exceeding expectations is considered wasteful and an opportunity lost.

Maybe it was a mistake hiring someone to sell what he couldn’t create, one whose basic principle was to get the most out of what the other guy did. The lab rats sure detest me now, but the bosses take a look at their shiny new cars and that excessive expense account the company could now afford and seem to enjoy what I do. The company has grown five-fold since this change in direction, and already, the pressure is on to keep up the pace lest the others keep up.

Make no mistake, this is not a Jerry Maguire-esque epiphany. The evil I do is necessary to keep jobs and turn a profit. If it weren’t for what I do, the turtle-paced growth would surely have stalled, putting it all in a precarious state of life or death. Without hell, heaven is useless, and the absence of greedy bastards like me would see humankind still wandering in the desert, chasing after what the vultures left behind.

Do I like doing my job? No. But do I like having one that pays the bills? You probably know the answer to that.

Boy do I need a good night's sleep!

2010-05-23T04:22:00.003+08:00

It's half-past four in the morning, and with a glass of brandy in hand, I am trying to get some shut eye after a sorry poker loss. Just wasn't my night, and maybe a long lay-off from this unforgiving game had done me in. No matter, though, it was fun being with friends. Besides, it was a small price to pay for unlimited pizza, beers and other goodies that the birthday boy had prepared. Not bad at all, I say.

*****

You may have noticed a sharp decrease in the number of posts on this here blog. Contrary to conventional wisdom, no, I still don't have much of a social life. This phenomenon may be more correctly attributed to my life sinking down to such depths of boredom that there really isn't much to talk about. Sure this blog is about nothing, but that "nothingness" has been so little in coming that it can be more accurately described as in a state of vacuum. It's complicated, I know, I might need to explain a bit further here, you see, imagine events as binary numbers... 1s and 0s. This blog is mostly about the 0s, which is nothing while 1s are for somethings. But add to this set-up an event such as -1, this is where I am now.

I bet you're even more confused than before, don't worry, I'm in a pickle as well about this, which is why I'm shutting up about it right now.

*****

Maybe the recent sweltering heat has fried my brain a medium-well that it cannot process my random thoughts into random posts. I do not work well in this environment, as evidenced by the lackluster performance at work. In the colder months, January and February, it was all well and good. But March and April were total disasters, and the only explanation that I can come up with is this heat. Well, more of an excuse, actually. May isn't looking that great either, which is why I'm really looking forward to the coming June showers to cool things off and kick off a renaissance of sorts in the workplace as well as the blogosphere.

*****

So you made it this far? Wow, you must be even more bored that I am. Somehow, I pity you for wasting all that time to read this. So you didn't learn anything, probably got a little bit irritated, and wasted precious minutes of your time better spent if you had just gnawed on that ballpen or pencil instead. Sure, I'll say I'm sorry, but that doesn't change anything, does it? Why did I even publish this if I knew I'd be sorry for it? Beats me.

The weekend in reverse

2010-05-17T01:44:00.003+08:00

Tonight I laced up for an early evening jog around the old alma mater, as suggested by my friend with a metal ankle. He picked me up at home without warning, which was great considering that if he had told me he was picking me up, I would have had a number of excuses handy to skip it. This was the first time in months that I'd be going out for a jog, so I said my prayers and readied myself for the impending heart attack.

The result of the entire effort proved my earlier suspicion that I was way out of shape. I was gasping for breath in the final stretch that I stopped and walked just as I saw the 2.2 kilometer mark a few meters away, a pathetic 17'51" as I crossed the finish-slash-pedestrian lane. I was almost 3 minutes above my last time, don't even ask about the succeeding lap.

Though it was a miserable run, I had a lot of fun and my sweat-drenched shirt was a sort of trophy that I smile upon. This was the start of getting back into form, as well as penance for all the iced teas and carbohydrates I've been devouring as of late. The aching sensation in my hamstring and calves tells me I did good tonight, and now I'm thinking of doing this during the weekdays a lot more often. Wish me a heck of a lot of luck, people!

*****

It was a very late night, the clock just about to announce midnight, when a buddy of mine called about getting some coffee. Being so easy and cheap, I agreed and picked him up 15 minutes later, not even sure where a cafe was still open. Well, we drove around for a while until we stumbled across one, which was closing in half an hour, but we still went in and got our coffee fixes anyway. As we sat across each other, we realized how strange it was that two men were sipping caffeinated beverages when at the back of our minds, it was really an ice-cold beer that we had to have.

We left even before my coffee warmed down.

The funny thing was, this buddy of mine wasn't supposed to be drinking, and yet we were. His doctor had advised against alcohol, some sort of problem with his liver becoming fat, which he told even before we went for coffee. This fact of knowing about it left me a bit guilty, sure he was old enough to know the difference between right and wrong, but I was dumb enough to push him over and order a beer. My bad, but the beer was all good for sure.

*****

I had a dream the night before, which was so eerily life-like that I remember every bit of it until now. Strange that I do, usually I forget about whatever dream I have the first 2 minutes after waking up.

Anyway, the dream I had was about 2 hot young girls. I had just dropped off a buddy of mine at his house in some posh subdivision just after midnight when on the way back I spied these 2 hot girls, in their friday night best walking in high heels toward the village gate around a couple of kilometers away. Being a kind-hearted citizen, I stopped, opened my window and asked if they would like a ride to the gate. "Are you sure it's alright?" they asked, my heart went out to them, naturally, "Of course it's alright.". They hopped in.

"Thanks for the ride, my name's Hanika, her's Nicole."
"I'm The-luckiest-man-ever. Where are you guys headed to anyway?"
"Some-hot-chick-bar-that's-in-the-same-direction-to-where-you-live"
"Wow, I'm actually headed home and it's right in the same direction as where you're going. Do you want me to drop you off somewhere near-my-place?"
"Yeah, if it's alright with you."
"Don't worry, it is." (I wonder how my breath smells?)

small-talk-small-talk-small-talk-small-talk... (Is my hair ok?)

"So why were you guys walking this time of night anyway?"
"We couldn't call a cab from her place, we just sneaked out of her parent's house."
"Oh you naughty girls, the both of you!" (Oh you naughty girls, the both of you!!!)

small-talk-small-talk-small-talk-small-talk... (Oh you naughty girls, the both of you!)

"So what do you do?"
"Oh, were students."
"Oh you are? What are you studying?" (Please say pole-dancing, pretty please?)
"I'm in some-course-I-couldn't-care-less-about, Nicole's taking up another-course-I-couldn't-care-less-about-either."
"Ahh, in the same school?"
"Yep, at some-school-I-couldn't-care-less-about-too."
"That's cool. I went to this-school-that-I-hope-will-impress-the-crap-out-of-you-two."
"Wow!" (Worked like a charm!)

small-talk-small-talk-small-talk-small-talk... (I wonder if my sister's home?)

"Isn't it kinda late to be going out still?"
"Yeah, but we had to go to this other party earlier." (And the real party hasn't yet begun!)
"Really? What party was this?" (If she says pole-dancing party, I'll give up smoking for good!)
"Our friend's debut." (HUH? Debut means 22nd birthday, right?!)
"Your friend, meaning your neighbor or something?" (OH PLEASE SAY YES!)
"Our classmate back in high school." (Ok, you both took the 7th grade four times, right?)
"Oh, so you're how old again?" (Lord, give me this one and I'll sacrifice a whole pig for you, please?)
"I'm 18..." (Uh oh)
"... and she's 17." (Crap, I'm too pretty to go to jail!)
"Oh, is that so?" (Where are my legs?! I can't feel my legs!!!)
"So how old are you?"
"An-age-younger-than-33-but-still-a-lot-older-than-18." (C-R-A-P)

small-crappy-talk-small-crappy-talk-small-crappy-talk... (C-R-A-P)

"Well, this is the best I could do for you guys. There's a cab, do you want to see if that cab will take you to your party?"
"We'll be okay here. Thank you so much, guy-who-looks-like-he's-seen-a-ghost!"

At this point, they both shook my hand, which could only make matters worse, as I swear at their ages, they still had the cooties.

"Pleasure's all mine (until it wasn't), take care, guys!"
"Yes, we will, thanks again!" (You sorry S.O.B!)

If this wasn't a dream, then you could imagine how far worse I would feel.

Working it

2010-05-08T13:38:00.003+08:00

My boss sort of reprimanded me a few days ago, apparently I wasn't working too hard. He notices I've been in the office a lot, on time even. Reports submitted on time, cooperation with the operational side of things have been better, and the imminent expansion of our branches and services is getting along fine. I couldn't agree more with him, I do need to work harder.

His idea of work entails:

1. Going out to play more golf
2. Getting together with clients and guzzling a few pints with them
3. Attending more "fellowship" meetings (which are actually parties thrown by all these associations and groups where you drink even more booze)
4. Staying away from my desk, all to be able to do more of the above.

*Sigh*

Work is so damn hard.

Sure, you're probably thinking of how lucky I am to have this job. But trust me, it's not at all easy. Sometimes, I wish I were just some drone in a cubicle "processing" something, being told what to do and how exactly to do it. Hanging out at the water cooler or the pantry, catching up with all the office gossip and planning some new way to irritate the receptionist. Ahh... life's so much simpler that way.

*****

The mere fact that kids rarely think of themselves growing up to a career in sales is enough for me to realize that I didn't get that job I've always wanted. This might be a result of watching mom an afternoon at home, shouting curses at the encyclopedia salesman telling him to get his foot off the door. Sure she might get rid of this guy now, but a few moments later the vacuum cleaner salesman is ringing on the bell and knocking on the door (tapping the window, too), and I think to myself no way am I going to end up like that loser. Fast forward a few decades and I look in the mirror and think Jehovah's Witness. Crap.

How did I get here, anyway? What sort of education did I get to land this gig? How bad was I in the past life to be reincarnated sandwiched between "anti-christ" and "pond-scum"? Well, as a public service, I present to you the steps to how I got here:

1. Never listen to your parents

A good gauge of knowing how much you listen to them is by counting how many times your name is called (or shouted) out aloud in instances such as "Hap, go take a bath!", or "Hap, stop playing in the rain!", sometimes "Hap, sewer rat is not a pet!". My favorite would have to be "Hap, stop that or I'll ______!!!", usually succeeded by a loud thud or slap.

2. Be invisible in high school

The cool kids end up as drunks or work the family business into its ruin. The nerds and geeks inherit the earth and become filthy rich. Us invisible kids end up working for these nerds, selling utterly useless stuff to the cool kids, accelerating their downward spiral.

3. Get wasted in college

The best way to prepare for any exam is to loosen up with some alcohol the night before. You deaden your senses for the failure you are to become even if you did study anyway.

4. Make sure you get the most out of college

Simple, you try to get the most years you can possibly get out of college without getting kicked out. Alcohol is recommended. Some of my batchmates became doctors and lawyers already while I was still an undergrad, on appeal to be re-admitted as a student.

5. Learn to beg

Doesn't matter what your begging for, it might be for a passing grade, for the folks to let you use the car, a hooker's (or to be PC: exotic dancer) phone number, the Dean to not kick you out of school or for your dad to stop hitting you on your backside with his belt. Remember, selling is begging.

*****

Sometimes, I wake up and hate myself for my job. With the weight of my golf bag on my fragile shoulders, forgetting to remove the spikes from my shoes, I head over to the bar and order another round of beers for our table. Life can't be reduced to hitting balls, eating bar chow and drinking beers, can it?. Who the heck wants to be a salesman?

There's not a single atheist in hell

2010-04-26T22:30:00.003+08:00

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.

Bird-brained part two

2010-04-21T23:21:00.003+08:00

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.

Limping in at life

2010-04-20T21:53:00.003+08:00

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.

This is getting too old

2010-04-18T23:47:00.002+08:00

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.

Two funerals and the bug's revenge

2010-04-07T20:42:00.003+08:00

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.

Hair talk

2010-04-04T17:09:00.004+08:00

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.

Home Improvement Day

2010-04-03T02:01:00.003+08:00

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.

Check, Call and Raise

2010-04-02T00:44:00.003+08:00

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.

Drama Queen (You've been warned)

2010-03-25T19:38:00.009+08:00

Finally found what that song was I was listening to one stupid night at Ascott...

Possession (Piano Version) - Sarah Mclachlan

*****

Half-awake, half asleep, fully drunk... I was in an unfamiliar suite. The beer on the table beside me already lukewarm. The unrefined taste on my lips reminds me, brings me back to this stark reality I'm living in. I light another cigarette, as raindrops glide down the window.

On the other side of the glass, city lights shone like little bulbs on a Christmas tree. The drops of rain as ether, the lights give everything a faint glow to them, emphasizing the drama. I close my eyes, as a woman's voice in a smooth alto sings a sad song on the radio. I fall asleep again just as her voice fades and the hammering of the piano intensifies.

The rain had stopped when I finally lifted my eyelids, and static wafted through the suite. I lifted the bottle of beer beside me, it was too light. I lit another cigarette as I stood and walked to get myself another bottle. The incandescent glow of the refrigerator's light blinds me momentarily, struggling to make out what there was in store. I grab another beer, and the loud ping of the crown dropping to the counter sounded so comforting with the pop and fizzle. I took a huge gulp, the cold numbed my mouth to the bitterness.

I spied the car keys on the mantle, Noel was still asleep in the room and it was a little past one o'clock. I could make it, I thought. The keys felt cold in my hand as I put them in my pocket. I counted how much money I still had, there was still enough left over to buy company. I closed the door behind me and went in the elevator.

*****

The place was almost empty tonight, the crowd usually came in on the weekends. The blaring music and bright lights were nauseating, making it almost impossible to focus on the stage. An aging, balding lady sits beside me, her lips moved but I barely made out a sound.

"What?"
"I said do you want company?"
"Maybe later, I just came to watch."
"Ok, just call me. I'm over there." She points to a small corner where waiters in white shirts and bow-ties converged. "Ask for Linda." I nod agreement and went back to the show.

It was the same song and dance as any other night. White bodies, slow rock songs and high heels. This stirred nothing in me so far. A few of the ladies were seated with a couple of men, the usual groping and holding and teasing. From this distance, the pale sliver of skin on their fingers were evident, and I looked at mine and there wasn't. Maybe if I hadn't waited too long.

The room goes dark again, and when it went back on a new face was on-stage. I almost dropped my bottle when for a second, I thought it was her. No, it wasn't. Suddenly I was aware of everything around me, trying to regain a sense of where I was. The girl on stage looked right at me, smiled, then looked away. She finished her routine, then went upstairs out of sight.

I scanned the corner of the room to look for Linda. I raised my hand to be noticed, and a waiter tapped her on the shoulder and pointed in my direction. She finished off her laugh with the waiters and went to me. "Yes sir?"
"What's her name? The girl who was just on-stage?"
"Irish? Wait, I'll let you meet her."
"Thank you."
It took a couple of minutes for Irish to re-emerge, dragged by Linda through empty tables and chairs. She propped down on the vacant seat beside me and flicked her hair to get a better look at me.
"Irish, you take care of him, yeah?"
"Yes, Mommy Linda." Linda took a seat on the table behind us.
"Hi sir, what's your name?"
"Abel. Is Irish your real name?"
"Of course it is." She put her hand on mine, just as the waiter brought her drink.

*****

After Irish had a couple more drinks, we found ourselves alone, in a dark, cramped space, lit only by the lighted stage on the other side of the heavily tinted glass. I was apparently too drunk, good enough to only watch as Irish tried in vain to get things going.

"Stop it, it's no use." Spitefully she looked up at me, frustrated apparently.
"What's wrong with you?"
"A lot, I guess." I took another gulp of beer.
"Stop drinking! Look at you, you're a mess!"
"So what if I'm a mess? I'm paying you!"
"What do you think I am?!"
"What do you think I think you are?! You're working here, right?!"

She stood up, now looking down on me, and slapped my face hard. I looked up straight at her, stood up myself and moved closer to her.

"Want to hit me? Alright, hit me again!" Without flinching, she let her hand fly once more. I heard a ringing in my ear, and my face now warm and throbbing. "Another!" There was another, then a few more unprovoked. I caught her arm as she was about to hit me for the nth time, twisted it behind her back, and pushed her face down hard against the couch.

*****

"I'm sorry about your face." Irish said as she patted it with a wet towel.
"It's alright, it doesn't hurt too much." I started counting out a couple of bills from my wallet, and put them in her palm.
"That's too much."
"No, it's fine." She kissed me slowly on my reddened cheek, and wiped away the lipstick it left.
"Do you want my number?" She jotted it down on a receipt and gave it to me.
"Who's Susan?"
"That's my real name."
"I thought you were Irish?"
"Here, yes, outside I'm Susan." I folded the receipt and put it in my pocket. "I still think you're a mess."
"I'm a little better now, I think. Thanks." She accompanied me out of the room, and to the exit.
"Just send me a message. I'm not working on Sunday."
"I'll keep that in mind." Linda re-emerged with our waiter to see us off. I gave them each a tip and went outside.

*****

It was light when I got back to the suite. I took a shower and went to the refrigerator. There was only beer.

Noel entered the living room, newly wakened. "Beer this early? Alcoholic scum! And why is the friggin' sofa facing the friggin' window? Stop your friggin' drama, bitch!"
"Whatever."

*****

" ...And I would be the one,
to hold you down,
kiss you so hard.
I'll take your breath away,
and after I'd, wipe away the tears.
Just close your eyes, dear... "