duskwatcher

RANDOM HITS

2008-07-03T16:25:00.006+08:00

Stolen from Dodo .

1. Go here. The first random Wikipedia article you get is the name of your band.

2. Go here. The last four words of the very last quote of the page is the title of your first album.

If you want to do this again, you'll hit refresh to generate new quotes, because clicking the quotes link again will just give you the same quotes over and over again.

3. Go here. Third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. Go here. The first ten links you end up in (minus the .coms) are your 10 song titles.

And the results are...

Band: INDUSTRIAL & PROVIDENT SOCIETY

Album: BY THE AMERICANS THEMSELVES

Album Cover:

Song Titles:

HYPERMANIA
THROATSINGER
MIGHTYGIRL
DEADALIVE
RADIOKHARTOUM
THE HAUNTED
CARHENGE
ZELDMAN
FLATPACK
PURE SUGAR

NINETY

2008-06-09T07:56:00.004+08:00

June 8, 2008.

Sunday morning.

The car radio plays that Matthew Sweet song from 1995. The car itself had been released by Mitsubishi in 1997.

And since it was early on a Sunday, I drive like it was 1999.

The only thing that ruins the 90s themed ride are the very contemporary gas prices.

SNIFF

2008-02-14T09:31:00.005+08:00

Over the shoulder of some other passenger in the shuttle, I caught a glimpse of a headline in the tabloid he was reading. It said something like:

METRO MANILA BAKA BUMAHO

For a quick, headline-ish translation:

FOUL-SMELLING FUTURE FEARED FOR METRO

EXPERTS THINK METRO WILL STINK

Anyway.

Seeing the headline made me wonder.

What is Metro Manila supposed to smell like now?

And, since the time people thought it was a good idea to build huts along the banks of the Pasig River, did it ever actually smell good?

02/14/08

2008-02-14T09:10:00.001+08:00

It seems like I was just wondering where my holidays had gone when, all of a sudden, people were walking around with crosses of ash on their foreheads (some of them probably with no idea why they do). And I got to have a plate of tikoy for the Chinese new year -- even if my family isn't Chinese, or, for that matter, neither was the neighbor who gave the tikoy.

And now, delivery boys bearing...well...bears and flowers are back on the streets. While the red cartolina cut-outs of hearts, victorian lovers, and winged infants armed with projectile weapons are back up on store windows.

The days sure had flown for the first few months of 2008.

The paydays, however, did not.

12/26/07

2007-12-26T07:31:00.000+08:00

The overcast sky makes it look like it was 6 PM instead of 6 AM as I drive through Makati. Streetlights automatically switch off by the row. I keep the headlights on and make my way home through roads populated mostly by taxis empty of passengers. I turn up the radio to drown out a certain tune playing in my head.

A possible case of mild food poisoning had been the party pooper for December 25, 2007. I realize that even a day after Christmas, it could still cause enough trouble for me at work.

As the first droplets of rain spatter across my windshield, the DJ over at NU plays that song by Ben Folds Five.

And I grin, and I give in to that certain tune playing in my head.

THE WORKS

2007-12-04T14:03:00.000+08:00

The chatter died down to a murmur with the first boom, and heads were raised towards the fireworks.

It was the 24th of November. The Araw Awards ceremonies had just been concluded, and gathered just outside the Subic Bay Exhibition and Conference Center were many of the rising stars, superstars, legends and deities of Philippine Advertising. And me.

The 20th Advertising Congress was over.

Four days of network-sponsored catered food, raffles, games, open bars, free buffets, unlimited cans of soda, entertainment, and literally more freebies than I could carry (or want) that I actually gave some of them away. Oh. And yeah, there were the lectures.

Along with the other delegates from the office, I got to stay in a rented house where U.S. Navy personnel probably lived. It was easy to imagine American flags hanging from windows. The neighborhood was so uniform it seemed there was a coconut tree assigned to grow on every lawn. The place even had a murder of crows and not the usual quarrel of sparrows.

Charming as the place was, it also meant a 15 minute drive to the convention area. In Metro Manila, that travel time can cover anything between several blocks and a few inches. In Subic however, where traffic only builds up outside the convention center as vehicles load and unload Metro Manila folk, 15 minutes meant a considerable distance and driving through bits of jungle.

The numerous trips between the convention center and the house, the duty free shops and party venues were exhausting. Sitting through hours of lectures proved grueling.

By the fifth meal that inevitably included fish fillet, a random pasta dish, and beef slices in gravy, I felt queasy. And by the time I realized that “finalist” was as far as my entry would go for the awards (I’m proud to say it wasn’t a scam), I was downtrodden.

Then the fireworks started.

They were okay.

However, the context I was seeing it in made them quite special.

I was with Kitty. Just behind us stood Trisha who was clutching one of the trophies they bagged that night. Scattered all over the hushed crowd were my friends. Rivals. Colleagues. Winners. Losers. Scammers. With the exception of those still desperately trying to peddle themselves off into a new agency, we all were watching the Subic sky.

It was invigorating to see that I was part of a group that still had a sense of wonder.

I felt the accumulated stress of four days capped by a disappointing evening fading away around the time the spell of the fireworks was broken, and only puffs of smoke remained.

The 20th Advertising Congress was over.

There would be more.

I would be back.

As the crowd started to break up according to agency affiliations and party destinations, I was pleased to learn about what I’d think of as the last batch of Congress treats.

They were handing out free beer in the lobby.

SCREENING

2007-12-04T10:29:00.000+08:00

Tagged by Dodo.

Last October. Heh.

MEMORIAM

2007-11-06T15:29:00.000+08:00

One of the city’s largest cemeteries is just a street away from where I live.

It serves as the major landmark when I tell people how to find my house. I stand before its whitewashed walls whenever I wait for a jeep or cab. The usual parade of hearses, followed by the mourners is part of my Sunday afternoons. When I finally got my own room in the old house (the former library which became the former laundry area), before the row of small commercial establishments popped up on the neighboring compound, my view had been an assortment of tombstones and mausoleums around the ancient acacia.

Unsurprisingly, All Saints Day has always been the major event of the year in this sort of neighborhood. Our street would be transformed into a parking lot/tricycle terminal/bazaar. Because of its proximity to the cemetery, our house had always served as the relatives’ pit stop since the time my maternal great-grandmother, their Mama, was alive.

Todos los Santos is like the Mexican celebration Dia de los Muertos, but with less of the festivities and more, much more of the feasting. Aside from being a school holiday, I’d look forward to November 1 because of the food stalls – which would eventually range from some of the neighbors selling ketchup spaghetti to global food chains offering value meals and pizza slices – that magically appear on the middle of the road. This was about the only time when I could find grilled dried squid near my place.

Like every other kid visiting the cemetery, I used to pass time at the clan mausoleum (well…more of the clan plots since my grandmother and her siblings never got around to adding in walls, gates or a roof) gathering candle drippings into wax balls. Several first of Novembers later, I had a wax ball the size of a small melon. When I felt I was too old and too cool to be collecting candle drippings, I turned over The Ball to a younger cousin so she can continue the tradition.

Being a typical member of the family, she immediately sold it to some guy who'd melt it down into floor wax.

She’s lucky I felt too old and too cool to care.

By that time, I was hanging out with my friends. We would squeeze past the obstacle course of tombs, candles, floral arrangements, coolers, umbrellas, tents and foldable furniture to see if there were any cute girls among the (living) people in the cemetery. Upon closer inspection, the alleged cute girls would more often than not turn out to be girls from the neighborhood dressed up for the occasion. Whenever girl hunting failed, we’d end up looking into abandoned graves and discarded caskets.

More November ones passed.

When I was in college, I realized that I was tired of being ordered by older relatives to stay and guard the bouquets from flower-snatching miscreants prowling about, and to keep candles safe from wandering urchins who had far better excuses than my cousin to sell candle wax. And by the time I was working, I preferred to be dead to the world, and to enjoy my own version of resting in peace as I napped in my room rather than sweating it out in the cemetery.

This year, I had helped my mother sort out the refreshments for relatives and guests at the house, said hello a couple of times, and that was that. After sunset, I lit some candles on the front terrace, and from behind a screen of bougainvilleas, watched the street and the cemetery gates beyond.

There were fewer stalls. Tighter security. Less people than the year before. Though still enough to be called a crowd.

I had visited the cemetery the day before, and would visit again the day after the first of November. I could afford to. After all, it is just a street away.

As the last of the light faded from the western sky, I saw the cemetery as it would look just once in a year.

When the scorching rays of the sun on bleached tombs had given way to the soft glow from thousands of candles flickering in the night.

POUR

2007-08-22T12:50:00.000+08:00

I have four umbrellas.

There's the small, foldable, midnight blue one that's always in my back pack.

There's the long, navy blue, wood handled piece of work in my room.

There's the medium-sized, matte silver and black corporate Christmas gift I keep in my office.

And then, there's the big black one I have stashed in the trunk of my car.

Which was why I had only one question last night: why on earth was I stuck outside some bank in Makati Avenue, waiting for the rain to stop?

MY MY MY

2007-06-18T18:41:00.001+08:00

Let's see.

Hollywood.

Or Hong Kong.

Um.

I'm not quite sure how Osment popped-up in the second set.

Is it because sometimes I sense dead people?

COOOOKIIIEEE!

2007-06-18T07:34:00.000+08:00

More stolen stuff.

This time from Den.

You Are Cookie Monster

Misunderstood as a primal monster, you're a true hedonist with a huge sweet tooth.

You are usually feeling: Hungry. Cookies are preferred, but you'll eat anything if cookies aren't around.

You are famous for: Your slightly crazy eyes and usual way of speaking

How you life your life: In the moment. "Me want COOKIE!"

The Sesame Street Personality Quiz

VI

2007-06-06T09:08:00.000+08:00

Stolen from Dodo.

Six Weird Things About Me.

“Each player of this game starts with 6 weird things about him/herself. People who get tagged need to write a blog entry of their own as well as state the rule clearly. In the end, you need to tag 6 people as well and list their names. Don’t forget to let them know they’ve been tagged!”

What?

Just six?

Let's see...

I. Jumped from the 2nd floor of the school building to the park below when I was in Grade 2. Er... Don't try this at home kiddies. I guess it was a combination of the right type of grass, the right type of shoes, and the right amount of luck along with some overtime work from my guardian angel that I landed feet first and suffered no injury whatsoever.

II. Around that time, I had been caught by my grandmother talking to the medallion around my neck. Printed on the metal was the blessed countenance of Voltes V.

III. When they asked me to draw cars in grade school, I drew tail-finned Cadillacs. Then again, I guess I watched way too much oldies on TV. And the latest set of encyclopedias at home was the Book of Knowledge purchased back when JFK was still president.

IV. At the ground floor bathroom of our old house, I couldn't help but count how many times the dipper had to go into the big drum of water everytime I had to fill a small bucket. Six.

V. Used to lipsynch to rock music complete with a busted electric guitar I stringed up with steel wire left over from the sampayan. This was cured by actually learning to play a working guitar.

VI. I love the smell of money.

Crisp.

Newly-printed.

Money.

Mmmmmmmm.

SAN ESTEBAN

2007-03-28T13:14:00.000+08:00

Played around with Neil Gaiman's Magnificent Oracular Journal, which basically plucks out lines from his blog.

After a couple of tries, it came up with this: There may have been more.

I thought it was a pretty interesting line to start a story. So now, I have this little tale:

There may have been more.

Then again, who was I shitting?

According to the most recent government survey, which was dated three years ago, the village of San Esteban was home to four thousand seventy six souls. It was a farming community in the middle of nowhere. With the bad road conditions, it would have taken us five hours to get there. Our mission didn’t give us that much time.

The village’s plaza was the designated landing zone. Even with the helicopter still high above the heart of the village, we could already see the old man sprawled near San Esteban’s sole clinic.

We hurried to where he was as soon as we landed. Apparently, he was a doctor. His coat was torn, grimy and splattered with blood – mostly his, judging by the wounds. Unable to speak because of the bubbling gash on his neck, he begged, with his eyes and a trembling hand, to be shot.

Sarge turned towards the squad’s medic. A silent question that the medic answered simply by shaking his head.

With the helicopter back up in the air, it had been quiet in the plaza.

The single shot sounded particularly loud.

Yet no dogs barked. Not one panicked bird flew away from the overgrown church belfry, or the nearby trees. There were just mute echoes.

Sarge lowered his pistol and ordered us to proceed.

We scouted the structures around the plaza. Broken down doors. Smashed, shattered windows. Fluorescent lights and electric fans switched on, then abandoned. Mosquito nets put up for the night, torn apart, and now looked like dusty cobwebs in the fading daylight. It was the same everywhere.

The vicinity beyond the plaza was yet unexplored. Stretches of empty streets stared back at us.

But our orders were clear.

Fifteen minutes.

Just fifteen minutes to look for survivors of what Sarge simply described as an infestation.

Fifteen minutes and all we found were lots of bloodstains and body parts - even in the police outpost. Now that I think about it, aside from the old doctor, we didn’t see a single intact corpse.

Fifteen minutes and we were heading back for the plaza, firearms raised towards the gaping doorways and windows as the helicopter landed behind us.

Fifteen minutes and San Esteban would be blasted off the face of the earth courtesy of the air force. Hopefully taking whatever infestation with it.

I didn't think it would work.

From the helicopter, I was sure I saw the old doctor scuffling away from the plaza.

BATHROOM BREAK

2007-03-23T16:57:00.000+08:00

There's something wrong with the door of the office washroom.

The knob (see Fig.1) keeps getting busted.

Leaving the washroom can be quite tricky at times. More than once, I had to claw at the door's edge like some mutt until I managed to pull back the door.

Since the start of the year, the maintenance guys must have installed five or six brand new knobs. Which would each last three days tops. Desperate for a solution, the building administration had an aluminum handle bolted on the door along with another new knob.

The knob lasted, oh, three days.

The aluminum bar lasted for five.

Now, I have two questions regarding the matter. Who the fuck can rip out an aluminum handle bar held down by metal screws? And, what can I do to avoid making him (or, possibly, it) angry?

-=(_)=-

The building recently installed them newfangled waterless urinals (see Fig.2). They even put up a sign that says each urinal saves something like 150,000 liters of fresh water a year.

Which was a nice thought.

But then, there was a time when one toilet bowl's plumbing got screwed up (see Fig. 3). It just kept flushing. And flushing. And flushing. Until they got around to fixing it last month, the thing must have gushed out 150,000 liters of fresh water in a week.

-=(_)=-

We share the washroom with the company located a floor below us. The place gets rather crowded right after lunch breaks. For some reason , a number of their guys don't bother to lock the cubicle doors (see Fig.4) when they piss into the bowls when the urinals are taken. And when they don't lock the cubicle doors, the little sign outside would not flip to the red "occupied" sign.

So, I'd walk up to a cubicle with the green "vacant" sign, push open the door, and hit:
a) some guy's shoes
b) some guy's butt
c) some guy's back and
d) all of the above that one time when I pushed open the door with more force than necessary.

-=(_)=-

Every day. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. Someone would be taking a dump in the washroom. Usually in the afternoons. I guess the toilet bowls came with one free shitter so as not to waste the facilities.

Whenever I'd catch the tell-tale whiff on my way in, I'd do a 180 turn and walk the length of the corridor, and up a flight of stairs to the other washroom.

I had given up trying to pull up my t-shirt collar to my nose to avoid inhaling the stench from some stranger's sphincter. I had given up trying to hold my breath as I piss. I had given up trying to piss faster, wash up in a flash and run for the door. That was the most futile plan of all.

Remember: the knob is usually busted.

See Fig. 1.

HEADING

2007-01-16T10:30:00.000+08:00

Why not? Heh.

SANCTUARY

2007-01-04T09:15:00.000+08:00

Our house has a tower.

My mother refers to it as the roof deck.

It's about a 15 foot high extension of the second floor stairwell accessible through spiraling stairs, roughly 10 by 10 feet in area, open to the elements, and it gives a commanding view of the compound. It's a tower.

Climbed up the tower on the last hour of 2006 and stepped out into a world that was getting smokier, noisier by the minute. Metro Manila was a warzone of bangs. Bursts. Flashes. Flares. Whistles. Booms. The air already smelled of gunpowder. Searchlights from posh parties made their final attempts to knife through the clouds. Car alarms wailed endlessly in protest of the hundreds of little explosive shockwaves around them. To the southwest, the Makati skyline was on its way to vanishing behind firecracker mists. From time to time, mangled corpses of rockets would fall on the nearby roofs with one final sad clunk.

I looked down at the concrete flooring and saw I was casting a shadow.

Moonlight.

I looked up.

And there it was.

The gibbous moon.

Bright. Silver. Oblibvious to the rockets that vainly attempted to soar up to it.

It was the eye of the storm.

At that moment, as I stood alone on the tower, bathed in moonlight, a crisp breeze blew from the north. And I felt happy.

Going through the past few weeks choked by the desperate holiday rush had exhausted me. Much in the same way, going through 2006 had frayed my nerves at times and turned some strands of my hair white (though, as I'd say, that was mostly caused by being pounded repeatedly by my wicked dentist's fucking mallet). The year hadn't been horrible. True, there had been great highlights. Life's milestones. But it hadn't been a walk in the park either. '06 was a double edged sword.

For the first time, I had faced problems I never dreamed I'd encounter. I never even knew some of them actually existed. And of course the eternally hungry beast that is the industry that I love had to be fed with generous helpings of my blood, spit and sweat.

I'm glad that in spite of all these, I've had my quiet moments in the moonlight in the past 12 months.

It came in the form of little late night dinners with Kitty. Or spending cigarette breaks with friends. Or contributing to the growing collection of empty beer bottles on the table with those I think of as brothers.

The calm amidst the storm.

There weren't as much of those moments as I'd like. Still, they've been enough to get me through the year. And I hope I'd get more for the next. I hope everyone does.

I glanced up at the moon for one more time. Grateful for the moment before I had to head down the spiral staircase to join the crowd below waiting for the first meal of 2007.

DRIVEWAY

2006-12-07T18:11:00.000+08:00

It had been a long haul.

Couldn’t help thinking this as I sat on a plastic bench in the LTO waiting area. The place was packed. Mostly with males of all sorts, a sprinkling of women, and at least one anxious mother accompanying her boy (who, by the way he looked at his "buddy", may actually be a girl).

Above the hum of a hundred voices, random names said over the sound system served as gaps in the recurrent announcements: please proceed to the cashier. Please don’t crowd up Window 10. Proceed to Window 1. Please take your seats and wait for your turn – don’t crowd up Window 10. Line up for photo and signature. Go upstairs to take the written exams. Please don’t crowd up Window 10 (I guess the average Pinoy believes he can hurry up an entire bureaucracy by standing before a counter and breathing on the glass). Wait outside for the test results. Proceed to Window 10.

The sunlight was streaming from the west at a steadily lengthening angle. The hastily devoured hotdog bought from a fast food crew member conveniently situated at the door was long gone. The bottle of mineral water strapped on my backpack only had a few drops left. And the cardboard folder I transformed into a fan was beginning to disintegrate.

Then again, whoever said rites of passage are meant to be painless?

A forty-something engineer/dad-type plopped down on the bench before me. He turned and told me he was there for a renewal. What was I waiting for? Oh. That usually takes a day. It’s really how things are the first time. He inquired about my age, and made a comment that I was getting my driver's license a bit late in my life – he got his when he was 16.

I nodded politely, only half listening to him; straining to hear if my name would be the next one called out.

Never bothered geting a license back when I was 16. There simply was no point to getting one. The last time a vehicle was parked in our garage was long before I was born. While I heard that some classmates got cars as high school graduation presents, all I got was a spaghetti dinner at home right after the commencement exercises. College graduation was a little better: a combo meal and a cab ride home from PICC.

Started looking through the Bulletin’s Classified Ads section for used cars when I got my first job. Back then, the second hand (well…fourth hand) car I’d eventually get probably still existed only as a sketch somewhere in Japan.

Back then, I computed that I’d be able to buy a car in about four years if I’d save up really, really well and give up certain luxuries. Like food.

Over the years, plans to get a car had gone dormant. Buried underneath bills, and deadlines, and hundreds of other things to worry about. I had been content simply to drive on the PS2. That is, up until a few months ago when I asked myself why not. Why not now?

From then on, wheels had been set in motion.

Leading up to me spending an entire day at the LTO.

Engineer/Dad had probably realized I wasn’t really in the mood for a friendly chat. He turned away without another word and busied himself with reading the papers instead. Which was fine since that was when I was called up to Window 10.

I got up and began making my way through the crowd that was once again growing before the counter.

Moments later, I was through the compound gates.

Relieved that I could get fresher air in my lungs (after spending a day in a non-air conditioned hall with hundreds of sweaty men, you’d be relieved too). Glad that I was, after all these years, finally licensed to drive.

I walked away from the compound.

And proceeded to look for a cab.

EXIT

2006-11-27T07:51:00.000+08:00

When Kitty told me that she'd be leaving for another ad agency, I knew the office would never be the same. Much in the same way, I was pretty sure her new company would never be the same again.

She has enough energy, and joy, and MP3 selections (and, after one too many Cokes past 4 p.m., more energy) that, like a little power plant, she can brighten up any room.

With her leaving, I knew the lights would be just a little dimmer.

That said, I do wish her all the best. She has the potential to make a difference. The new environment may just be the place for her to spread her wings further, and fly higher.

I'd like to think that long before the last time she passed through our company's doors as an employee, she had, in her own way, raised the bar.

Took this pic one of those mornings after Kitty announced her resignation, yet I managed to post it just now.

PLAYING GOD

2006-10-09T08:54:00.000+08:00

For anyone who has ever wanted to play the part of a sun deity incarnated as a brush-wielding white wolf running around (and breaking stuff...and pissing on monsters) in a stunning fantasy version of Japan, gaming doesn't get better than this.

Really.

It doesn't.

p.s. Many thanks to Maun for giving me the heads up that the game was already available -- had been waiting for months. Heh.

PROS AND CONS

2006-09-18T18:08:00.000+08:00

Which Lost Character are You?

You're Sawyer! You tell no one the truth. You scavenge around the wreckage for useful items and look through dead bodies for money. Yet you still have some good in you.
Take this quiz!

THE MARK OF CANE

2006-09-11T09:02:00.000+08:00

August had brought me the aftermath of two oral surgery sessions, a flu joined at the hip with a nasty cough, and, just when I thought I could let out a sigh of relief, a sprained ankle on the very last day of the month.

By day two of the sprain, I came to terms with the fact that clinging to walls and furniture like some big lizard whenever I had to go anywhere just won't do. I sent out for a cane. And a few hours later, I had me a P95 rattan walking stick that, perhaps in the effort to make things more interesting, was varnished in a tan shade then embellished with black stripes.

It looked like a tail chopped off a bamboo tiger.

Still, a cane is a cane. It didn't make much sense to get one of those expensive aluminum or steel sticks for something I'll be needing for two weeks tops.

It serves its purpose.

Aside from helping me walk, the cane is as excellent visual aid for the herds of Makati office workers -- it alerts them not to trample the limping guy in their stampede to their offices. It restrains them from pushing me down the underpass stairs I have to descend a step at a time. It serves as a reminder that I actually have a reason for taking time in reaching elevator doors.

Plus, it also earned me the (temporary, of course) nickname Dr. House.

FACE IT

2006-08-10T08:30:00.000+08:00

Kitty played around with my pic here and came up with these results: Yes. I started growing a goatee when I was three months old.

EXTORTION

2006-08-03T08:19:00.000+08:00

So they poked me with needles.

Bruised my mouth.

Cut me up with a knife.

Hit me over and over with a hammer until they chiped bone.

Then they took my money.

I was spitting blood by the time they let me go. Still, I was glad to be getting out there alive.

These dentists sure got some racket going, eh?

ORAL

2006-07-21T09:08:00.000+08:00

Will be going through oral surgery today.

I fear not shedding blood.

I do, however, fear shedding money.

YEAR TWO

2006-06-23T07:51:00.000+08:00

Two years ago, I sat before the computer in my study and typed in the very first entry for this blog.

This was around the time when I was a ponytailed bum wondering if I'd ever find my way back into advertising.

Since then, my computer had been moved to my new room in the new house. My study had been torn down to make way for a larger living room when the old house was rented out. I had cut my hair. Though right now, I am in dire need of a haircut. I'm back in the industry. In fact, at the moment, I have more work than I'd care for.

Much has happened in two years. So much. Too much.

But I'm still here.

Duskwatcher is still up.

And, in spite of the fact that updates have been few and far between at times, you wonderful folks out there still bother to check in from time to time.

So.

Thank you.