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.

DEVIATION

2006-06-02T08:41:00.000+08:00

Shameless plug: though there are a lot of kids there who can kick my ass from a mile away even with their eyes closed, I decided to revive my deviantart account.

Have fun, kiddies.

FLAKES

2006-06-01T17:27:00.000+08:00

They fall.

Mute.

White.

Endless.

Relentless.

Obliterating every other color.

Covering every other thing.

Choking the very air.

And I wonder:

Will they ever finish scraping the paint off our office building's walls?

SEASON ENDER

2006-05-18T14:25:00.000+08:00

It began to drizzle as I was on the way to UP.

By the time I met up with Kitty at the campus library, the rain drops were noticably bigger. And when we reached Beach House for her birthday lunch, it was pouring.

The day before, I had been looking at the sun-scorched water lilies on the opaque, plastic bag-infested Pasig River. Thinking of how nothing, not even plants surrounded by water the whole time, escaped the brutal heat.

But, as we sat down to have a late lunch at the Beach House, the torrent thundered on the tin roof, the view beyond the windows was washed out by sheets of silver.

I'd like to think that, at that moment, the season changed.

And we were there when it happened.

STEPS

2006-05-10T08:39:00.000+08:00

Kitty,

This year, though the climb had been challenging, the path not always paved in gold, you found the strength to take things in stride. And skip off on your merry way.

I wish you all the best as you take the next step. Happy Birthday.

Now, go have that cigarette break - you deserve it.

Love,

vince

BUSRIDE

2006-04-30T12:37:00.000+08:00

A little gift for teh Kitteh. Clicky-clicky.

APRIL

2006-04-25T17:40:00.000+08:00

Though February has 28 days most of the time, it lasts longer than April.

April disappears faster than a plastic cup of water spilled on a shimmering black asphalt road around three o'clock on a cloudless afternoon.

Unlike March, April never gets to hear the final gasps of a dying schoolyear. April is the zenith of the summer vacation. It is the unused alarm clock, the school shoes gathering dust in a corner, the long afternoon naps, the idle wait for anything worth watching on tv, the family vacation. It is hanging out with the pals, digging up the porn from underneath the bed (well...digging it up more often), the late night phone calls, the group trip.

But then, all too soon, it's May -- the month that has the stale classroom breath of June down its neck.

April is the long wait for Holy Week vacation. Holy Week itself. And the days following Easter that are spent wondering where the holiday had gone.

April is a triple scoop ice cream cone that's starting to drool. April is a two-hour roadtrip. April is the last night on the beach. April is a mind-blowing orgasm.

April is a lauriat dinner where the almond jelly is brought in when the peking duck course is not quite through.

HAVE A KNIFE DAY

2006-04-24T10:08:00.000+08:00

Still half-asleep, I dried the knife I had just washed before slicing some ham for breakfast. I remember thinking that nothing could jumpstart a Monday morning like some ham and toast.

Yeah.

Ham. Toast. A nice mug of coffee.

Then, the stainless steel knife blade flew out the wooden handle.

Obeying the Law of Gravity (as well as the Law of Murphy), the blade plummeted sharp tip down towards the general direction of my sandaled left foot.

I had a second to either move my foot away, or think that someone must have broken the knife and then simply stuck the blade back into the handle hoping no one wil notice.

Being early on a Monday morning, I did the later and not the former.

The blade's tip, contrary to a huge number of odds, landed on my toenail (on the toe right next to the big one). And then, thanks to all the extra Tiger luck I could use up for the morning, or tough nails, the blade bounced off.

No puncture. No blood. No chipped nail. Just a slight soreness.

I got another knife and made breakfast as planned. Though I was wide awake by then, I still had my mug of coffee for the look of things.

* * *

For the next few hours after this incident, the song in my head was Mack The Knife.

SOUTHERN SKY

2006-04-23T15:48:00.000+08:00

Nope.

Unfortunately, it's not the clear blue sky over Mindoro or Batangas.

It's simply the view outside my room at the second floor.

And while I may have nice summer skies to watch, the sights come with scorching summer weather -- but not the sparkling, gloriously cool bodies of water that make putting up with this sort of scorchy, summery weather worth it.

There isn't a beach for miles. And if there are any swimming pools in the area (if -- I've lived here all my life and I'm pretty sure there aren't any), the pool-owning neighbors aren't sharing (or even talking for that matter).

The only time there'd be a decent amount of water beneath this cloudless view is when my dog Bud is being hosed down. The weather's too hot for a big dog with a black coat.

It's too hot for the dog's owner.

I promised myself I'd save up for an airconditioner. I just hope I can scrape together enough pesos before I fry (or, more likely, sweat) to death.

Until then, I have no choice but to seek refuge in the shower.

$100 = P20.60

2006-04-22T09:25:00.000+08:00

During a supermarket trip with Eclectic Curiosity*, we saw this Turkish treat that sold at P20.60:

My reaction was somewhere between wow. And why.

I suppose it's meant to refute the saying that money can't be eaten.

Well. For something about the size of an average chocolate bar yet worth just a little over 20 pesos, it actually tastes okay. Heh.

* She did the art featuring the wrapper. Thanks, Kitty! ^_^

WHIP IT

2006-04-16T09:21:00.000+08:00

Two processions reenacting Christ's trip to Calvary met on our street last Good Friday. Group A was marching from the Eastern end of the street. Group B had just arrived at the western end from the main road. Both groups were made up mostly of teens dressed in various Biblical wear (wigs, robes, veils, plastic Roman helmets and so forth), visibly sweaty in the noon sun even from the second floor balcony where I was perched. Both groups were, of course, bristling with the usual wooden spears, short swords, shields and leather whips.

Group B moved to a side of the street so Group A could march on. But when the Group A Christ passed (complete with thick, curly wig and heavy wooden cross), he was pounced on and flogged by (a-haha) strapping lads from Group B.

Perhaps it was all just a product of way too much zeal. Or perhaps it's something that happens when kids are handed whips during Holy Week: a Pavlovian reaction of sorts to scourge anyone they see with a cross.

Then again, maybe it was just way too much marching under the sun.

'Romans' in yellow capes and shiny gold breastplates had words (and a reprimanding whip) with 'Romans' in red capes and black, leather breastplates. And, after making sure their Christ was okay and available for whipping by his own team, Group A moved on.

LENT

2006-04-10T09:15:00.000+08:00

While applying gobs of Lily's Peanut Butter on my Gardenia this morning, I realized what the song in my head was.

The overture from the soundtrack of Jesus of Nazareth.

So, Maurice Jarre. You win again.

Hmmm.

I suppose I'd be hearing songs from Jesus Christ Superstar next.

SO...

2006-04-03T08:52:00.000+08:00

Something from poet and novelist Charles Bukowski shared by Eclectic Curiosity to the occupants of Writer's Block.

Now, I'm sharing it here.

so you want to be a writer?

if it doesn't come bursting out of you

in spite of everything,

don't do it.

unless it comes unasked

out of your heart and your mind and your mouth

and your gut,

don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours

staring at your computer screen

or hunched over your

typewriter

searching for words,

don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or

fame,

don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want

women in your bed,

don't do it.

if you have to sit there and

rewrite it again and again,

don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,

don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody else,

forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,

then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,

do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife

or your girlfriend or your boyfriend

or your parents or to anybody at all,

you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,

don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers,

don't be dull and boring and pretentious,

don't be consumed with self- love.

the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to

sleep

over your kind.

don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket,

unless being still would drive you to madness

or suicide or murder,

don't do it.unless the sun inside you is burning your gut,

don't do it.

when it is truly time,

and if you have been chosen,

it will do it by

itself and it will keep on doing it

until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

DÉJÁ VIEW

2006-03-31T17:19:00.000+08:00

Since you nice folks have been seeing waaay too much old entries in this site, I've decided to throw in some more history -- Duskwatcher now has a Today In History box among the links.

So if (out of boredom perhaps) you ever wonder what happened a year, a decade, a century or a millennia ago, do check it out.

MAGS

2006-03-27T14:27:00.000+08:00

Apart from the newly orphaned computer and the few, inevitable pieces of paper, the table was empty. It was the first in the row of six desks we (inaccurately?) christened Writers' Block. It was the closest to the Creative Department's entrance and it was the first thing I looked at when I entered the room this morning.

It had been occupied by Mags, who had moved on in the proverbial quest for greener pastures.

Now, the usual clutter that gave a writer's desk that pleasant, lived-in look was gone. The action figures were gone. The knick-knacks were gone. The FHM calendar was gone. Mags had gone.

Mags was someone I genuinely liked having around on cigarette breaks, drinking sessions, and, when we got to work together for a pitch project, brainstormings.

I've met writers who merely reflected creative light like barren moons. Writers who, like will o' the wisps (also called fool's fire) that occur in bogs, managed to glow thanks to vast amounts of gas. Writers who deserved to be set alight with a tank of gasoline and a match.

Mags's flame came from within. And I am certain that flame will blaze brighter, so much brighter, with the new Agency.

Never got to say goodbye on Mags's final day at work last Friday. But I guess I never had to.

After all, the world of advertising is so small, I'm certain we'd meet again.

DARTHWATCHER

2006-03-04T10:42:00.000+08:00

You scored as Darth Vader. Darth Vader: The Father

Darth Vader

83%

Count Dooku

75%

Darth Maul

75%

Anakin Skywalker

71%

Darth Sidious

71%

Master Yoda

71%

Qui-Gon Jinn

50%

Mace Windu

50%

Obi-Wan Kenobi

42%

Luke Skywalker

33%

Random Jedi

13%

What Force User Are You?
created with QuizFarm.com

This quiz was taken by force from Canis Lupus. Heh.

FOREIGN TONGUE

2006-03-03T10:51:00.000+08:00

There is this guy I'd see among the regulars in the Makati-bound shuttles. He looks like the quiet sort and usually wore decent, collared shirts.

More often than not, he'd have a set of notes with him. Eventually, I discovered that he was learning Japanese. I thought this was a very admirable, productive way to spend the travel time that would otherwise be wasted on staring outside the vehicle windows and trying to ignore the horrid pop station drivel on the radio.

Up until the morning I saw what he was trying to learn in Japanese.

They were along the lines of: You have pretty breasts.

And: I like your buttocks.

Talk about lust in translation, eh?

GOODIE GOODIE

2006-01-06T11:34:00.000+08:00

In honor of the Good Omens reissue (February), decided to share with you the New Year's Resolutions of Crowley (a Demon) and Aziraphale (an Angel) by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett over at the Harper Collins site.

Crowley:

Resolution #1: I must accept that Super-Gluing valuable coins to the sidewalk and then watching events from a nearby café is not proper demonic activity.

Resolution #2: The same applies to rearranging the letters on wayside pulpits.

Resolution #3: Try to come up with something as good as cell phone ringtones, following one last stab at convincing Downstairs that cell phone ringtones are right up there in the whole Human Misery stakes. And iPods. Has anybody Down There even said thank you for iPods? Or "Googling yourself?" Frankly, I deserve some kind of award for "Googling yourself."

Resolution #4: I must encourage greedy people to use the term, "Low-hanging fruit," because that's just like old times.

Resolution #5: This year, I will get a desk near the window.

Resolution #6: I will try to understand why Hell is a no-smoking area. I just think it's ridiculous having to stand around outside the gates, that's all.

Resolution #7: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design, because it upsets everyone.

Resolution #8: Stop Googling myself.

Aziraphale:

Resolution #1: Spread peace and love and glad tidings of great joy throughout the world. Also try to get out more.

Resolution #2: I will be charitable to people who use the term "core values," however difficult this may be.

Resolution #3: Notwithstanding Resolution #2 (above), I will redouble my efforts to have the utterance of the phrase "core values" classified as a deadly sin. I believe Himself is with me on this one.

Resolution #4: I will try to be nicer to the customers. They want to buy books; I want to sell them. It can't be that hard. (Memo to self: Regular opening hours? Mark prices on books?)

Resolution #5: I will try to be polite to Gabriel, no matter what the provocation.

Resolution #6: Find out exactly what an "Internet" is.

Resolution #7: Really must resume dancing lessons. Learn the "Galloping Major," the "Gay Gordons," the "Mashed Potatoes." Possibly even the "Twist"?

Resolution #8: Thwart Infernal Wiles (ongoing).

Resolution #9: I will try to understand why Heaven is a non-smoking area.

Resolution #10: On the orders of Head Office I will encourage the belief in Intelligent Design – despite the fact that the human airway crosses the digestive tract. Who thought that was intelligent?

Resolution #11: Feed the ducks.

FRIDGE

2006-01-06T11:27:00.000+08:00

From Kitty.

If you like playing with refrigerator magnets but lack enough letters, well, this site is for you: http://www.dietcokelovelife.co.uk/

SUNSET '05

2006-01-01T08:29:00.001+08:00

I got to (dusk?)watch this sky with Kitty last Friday.

We were at the UP Lagoon area as we waited for friends (including videoke capo Is It Safe and the long lost Souljacker) who'd be joining us for a simple last minute gathering before the year ended. The sky had been white and gray with faint strips of blue so this was a pleasant surprise. It was as good a sunset as can be expected from an afternoon that was mostly overcast.

I was content.

And then, a few moments later, it got better.

I gazed at this silent eruption. Bathed in cool firelight.

Realized that this was how 2005 for me.

After 2004, I knew the next year would be better. Had to be better.

And it was. It actually turned out great. Not because of lowered expectations, but because '05 simply had exceeded whatever expectations or notions I had in my then long-haired head as I stood on the front porch to watch Metro Manila vanish underneath firework smog a year ago.

2005 had been a time for the closing certain books while beginning new chapters for others. Receiving text messages about deaths and wakes. Getting invitations for weddings and baptisms. Weeding out terrible acquaintances. Cultivating terrific new friendships. Discovering new places. Visiting old haunts.

Existing. Living.

Longing.

Loving.

The light began to fade.

And although it really wasn't the last sunset of 2005, I silently said a fond farewell to the year that was.

LOOKING AT DECEMBER

2005-12-31T18:37:00.000+08:00

Taken sometime during the first half of December when three or four projects were being rushed for the holidays.

Sneaked off to a neighboring building's outdoor dining area with Kitty for our coffee break that was so late, the other people on the 7th floor were already eating dinner.

TAXING

2005-12-22T15:13:00.000+08:00

Once again, thanks to the Christmas rush, getting a cab has become harder than, say, getting a bank loan or a U.S. Visa.

Cab drivers who'd bother to stop (instead of conveniently, numbly staring straight ahead and driving past) would demand to know your destination. "I'm not going there", they would say. Or "Traffic's bad there." And even "That's too far."

Was heading for a party with Eclectic Curiosity one time and a cab driver we hailed stopped, but won't take us to Blue Ridge because he was hungry. As we waited for the next cab that wasn't occupied by people slouched so low the seats looked empty, I idly wondered why he even stopped at all.

I suppose he was expecting us to bring him to the nearest Jollibee for some chicken and extra rice.

Getting around and getting drunk, particularly after work, had to be limited to venues that can be reached by foot.

Yet, a few Fridays ago, I met an exception to the haughty monsters that the usually bearable cab drivers evolve into each and every December.

It was very late at night in Makati. I had been trying to get a cab for over an hour. I had walked from the main roads to the side streets so I can distance myself from everyone else (which was, that night, a lot of people) waiting for a taxi. I was tired and sleepy. My eyes hurt because I had to stare at all those headlights. And my feet hurt after I walked into the very bowels of Legaspi Village.

Tired of being ignored by more than a dozen passengerless taxis, I had decided to give up, light one last stick, and walk back to Ayala where to take a bus.

I saw the cab.

Decided to take a chance. Raised my hand.

Lo and behold - it stopped.

The cab was called Easy Ride.

I figured that was a good little omen, so I risked telling the driver where I lived.

He agreed with a nod.

And the cab ride was wonderful even by the usual, non-December Metro Manila standards.

The car didn't smell of vanilla overdose, damp hospital ward, wet mutt or body odor.

The radio was tuned in to a light rock station, not one of those pop monstrosities with the annoying mascot voices, unfunny jokes and phoney laughter from the disk jockeys every few seconds.

Manong driver didn't try to lecture me on religion, or corruption in government, or the absolute benefits of an FPJ presidency.

Nor did he try to tranform his vehicle into a coffin for two, or least a theme park ride.

It was pleasantly uneventful all the way home.

Yes.

I gave a decent tip.

IS IT RAKET?

2005-12-22T11:25:00.000+08:00

This vehicle was parked at the back of our office building a few days ago.

Do. Isa ngang My Way.

TALE LIGHTS

2005-11-08T17:53:00.000+08:00

Or A TRUE JEEPNEY TALE.

Though it was quite early in the evening, the guy seated between me and the driver was in a state of inebriety worthy of the wee hours of the morning. He could hardly sit up straight on the passenger seat, let alone keep his eyes open.

I'd give him a nudge with my elbow from time to time - hard enough so that he'd sway back to his place and away from my shoulder, but not so hard as to prompt him to spew his stomach contents. Should the drunk bastard hurl, say in the general direction of the pasenger door, I would definitely be in harm's way.

While I was contemplating whether I should play it safe, get off the jeep and wait for another one (not a good option - it was still the evening rush) or wait to see if Mr. Gin-breath gets off before I do, something fell on my lap.

It was a lizard.

A small, brown house lizard.

It crouched, unmoving for a few moments as I wondered how it got on the jeep. Did it fall from the driver's garage ceiling? Did it hatch from an egg laid by a mommy lizard that fell from the driver's garage ceiling? Did it get on the jeep after lining up at the Pinatubo Terminal like the rest of us? And so forth.

Then, it jumped towards the drunk (yeah, I know...leapin' lizard), and I never found out where it landed.

Oh. And I was able to reach my stop without being puked on.

'Nuther TRUE JEEPNEY TALE

The jeep I was on (a different night, and a different, lizard-free vehicle this time) had stopped in the middle of the intersection.

Several cars began to blare their horns from different directions. From where I sat at the very back of the jeep, I craned my neck along with the other passengers to peer at the driver.

He was probably in his late twenties, unkempt hair flowing out his baseball cap, basketball jersey sweat-stained. Beside him was, I presumed, his wife (and co-pilot?) and his daughter, a grubby toddler who stared back at us between the driver's seat and the middle passenger seat. The second passenger seat was vacant.

The driver leaned out his window.

"Oi," he shouted towards the road's opposite lane. "Oi! Cellphone mo!"

A man in an office barong came running across the road. He said a breathless "thank you" as he retrieved his phone.

The jeep resumed its journey through the length of Boni Avenue.

CATCHING KITTY

2005-10-31T05:40:00.000+08:00

It's official, folks -- two weeks ago, I caught me a Kitty.

And I stole this shot using my phone as she fixed her hair in the conference room. Heh.

SONOFAPITCH

2005-10-27T13:20:00.000+08:00

Pitches are an advertising agency's version of humans trying to marry into money.

I've been dragged into a briefing for one of 'em around the last week of September.

It's over now.

However, so is most of October.

Funny how an incessant string of late hours and working on weekends can make an entire month vanish faster than spit on a seashore.

In that period of time, I missed out on precious weekends, several nights worth of sleep, the launching of Askals (but still managed to get autographed copies! woo-hooo!) at Bahay Ng Alumni, lunch invites, coffe invites and (gasp!) beer invites.

For four weeks, I had gotten so used to the late night/early morning traffic, that, on my way home after the pitch presentation, I was genuinely amazed at how many commuters and shop lights and lit signages there were at around 7 in the evening.

And now, two days after the pitch presentation, I am back to working on pending projects from my real accounts, updating my poor blog (apologies to everyone who got tired of seeing my last entry, XX), and planning drinking sprees.

As for the pitch, well...

Maybe we'd win.

Maybe we won't.

We'll find out in a few weeks.

That's a pitch for you.

That's life.

And life goes on.

FILTERED

2005-10-27T10:48:00.000+08:00

The I.T. guys here at work have raised internet security once more. Which is why I get this whenever I try to access certain blogs:

GateFilter Response

GateFilter has determined that the requested URL (insert random URL here!) is at least __ % likely to contain prohibited content.

The page has been blocked because its content is of a sexual nature.

Here's how some of you wonderful folks out there fared.

Versuswords is at least 64 % likely to contain prohibited content.

Thorsings is at least 67 % likely to contain prohibited content.

Chockwit is at least 75 % likely to contain prohibited content.

Meeowpaw is at least 79 % likely to contain prohibited content.

And compulsiveeating is at least 86 % likely to contain prohibited content.

My my.

How juicy were those entries?

XX

2005-10-03T14:12:00.000+08:00

Here's a Me Me with 20 questions. Stolen from Eclectic Curiosity. ^_^

1 If you were to commission a musician to make the soundtrack of your life, who would it be?
U2. And they're most welcome to throw in their old songs as well.

2 What would make you lose sleep?
Makin' lurv.

3 What is the most original breakup line you've ever heard?
At the moment, can't think of anything I've heard aside from the "it's not you, it's me" variety.

4 What could you have been in your past life?
A knight. The kind with a very, very used sword instead of the shiny armor.

5 If you can travel anywhere in the world, which country will be your first stop?
Japan. Hai!

6 If you could belong to any TV Family which family would you choose to belong to?
Futurama.

7 What song reminds you of your last relationship?
Verve Pipe's Freshmen.

8 If the door to your room had a sign on top of it (to at least give the people who are about to enter a warning), what would it say?
Beware of dog.

9 You're a cake. What kind are you?
A...Kink Cake?

10 Fill in the blanks. If I wasn't so _______, I would have been _______ by now.
Broke. An immigrant to some other place with a cooler climate.

11 What is the deepest, most desperate desire of your heart?
I agree with Curious Kitty: this deserves an entry on it's own. Will write it someday. Maybe.

12 What is your favorite household appliance?
The TV.

13 If you suddenly find yourself onstage in front of thousands of people, what song would you sing?
Ah...So Long, Farewell from The Sound of Music? Heh. *skips away*

14 What made you smile today?
Seeing another smile.

15 What did you eat that gave you food poisoning?
The first time, it was an expired (didn't know, okay?) can of corned beef. Then, about eight years later, it was evil tahong.

16 What weird food concoctions do you enjoy?
Um. Non-evil tahong?

17 If you were an animal, what animal would you be?
A wolf.

18 Of all of the Halloween costumes you have ever worn, which one was your favorite?
Edward Scissorhands.

19 What do you do to stay awake during long, boring classes/meetings?
I don't. Naps geeeewd.

20 If there were no tomorrow, what would you do today?
I'll "do".

SHUTTLE

2005-09-22T15:56:00.000+08:00

It seems that I've been taking the Makati-bound shuttles (for the vehicles aren't always the usual Tamaraw FX) long enough that certain fellow commuters have started to look familiar. And that's from someone as notoriously bad with faces (and names, actually) as myself.

I've even rudely taken the liberty of mentally assigning names for some of them. Like:

Angry Lady - she forever looks like she'll snap at anyone and everything. As much as possible, I try not to ask her to pass my fare over to the driver.

Living Dead - a dark, skeletal gentleman who apparently didn't get the memo that he was already deceased, and thus continues to report for work.

Girlzilla - who is as tall as she is wide. Like a mountain that alters the ecosystem around it, she can completely block the vehicle's air conditioning vent and leave the rest of us to a long, sweaty ride.

Incredible Bulk - a boy Girlzilla who makes things worse by hauling a gargantuan lunch box. And breathing loud.

Call Boy - in his metrosexual finest, the lad would whip out his phone and call up a girl. Apparently named Beyb. He would call Beyb, be disconnected after a few minutes, and call Beyb again. For the entire trip, he would say things like Beyb, let's just go na lang to Metrowok dis wikend, or Beyb naman, you mast nat du dat. If I could melt things with my mind, his cellphone would be the first to go. Then I'll try to melt him too.

Recently, a new character turned up at the shuttles. And I honestly hope he never shows up again.

I call him The Locomotive.

The guy sniffs twice. Then he snorts.

Sniffs twice. Then snorts.

Sniff-sniff. Snort.

Sniff-sniff. Snort...

PETTING

2005-09-06T15:32:00.000+08:00

Saw Banzai Cat's (thanks man!) virtual pet and I just had to get one of my own. Heh.

Problem is, I can't quite work out how to make it pop up higher on my side bar.

Ah well.

To meet mah pet, scroll down...

...down...

...down...

DEADLINES

2005-08-30T11:19:00.000+08:00

Dread rushed into my brain even before I raised my head from the pillow. Shit. Dread had probably been slithering around the dream that had been forgotten as soon as I woke up.

Friday night had found me unable (well...it was more of unwilling, actually) to complete several requirements for work.

And the specters of ignored Job Orders followed me home.

They whispered in the cab. Wailed in my study. Moaned in the shower. Rattled chains in the silence of my room.

Monday. They were all needed by Monday. Before lunch.

By the glare from the windows, I could tell it was way past nine.

I had overslept.

Specters go poltergeist.

Then.

Salvation.

I realized it was only Sunday.

FIFTEEN NOTES

2005-08-10T09:56:00.000+08:00

Saw this at Chocwit's LJ. Thought it was fun. Shamelessly did my own. Heheh.

Write 15 statements anonymous to people on your friends list and then pick 5 people to do this as well.

One great proof of my gender's stupidity is that guys aren't fighting over you like they ought to.

Ah. If only I liked your friends...

In case you're wondering: yes, there are moments when I could barely stop myself from begging you to take me back.

Said it before. I'd say it again. Save up.

Hire me?

So I'm not (blank) enough. Or (blank), (blank) and (blank) enough for you. Whatever it is you're looking for, I guess it's not me.

You're One. Bad. Motherfucker. Heheh.

Unfortunately, we crossed paths when I was at a bad place during a bad time.

Shit. You're expensive.

You have no fucking idea how much you affect me.

You're supposed to be a man. Grow balls.

How can I ever forgive myself for not being there during the times you needed me the most?

I really hoped you were smarter than him.

You still alive?

Had circumstances been different, I'd have my way with you seven ways from Sunday. ^_~

CHILL

2005-08-10T08:42:00.000+08:00

Am I cool or uncool? [CLICK]

You are Super-Cool!

Woah! Step back - the future's so bright for you it's blinding me! You are the coolest of the cool. Everyone looks up to you as the benchmark for being coooool. The fonze was your grandfather. Any cooler and you'd freeze! WOO it's chilly in here.

Cool quizzes at Go-Quiz.com

Later, dawgs.

YE KEN?

2005-08-05T16:01:00.000+08:00

Which Trainspotting Character Are You?

So...piss off. Doss cunts.

OVERHAUL

2005-08-02T13:43:00.000+08:00

Decided to update my profile pic. Heh.

VALKYRIE

2005-08-02T11:44:00.000+08:00

Friday

8:48 a.m.

Somewhere Else

Nothing spectacular happened when the Valkyrie's electrical system failed. No cinematic sparks and explosions. No popping noises. Not even a whiff of burnt plastic smoke. All the lights on the skycar's dashboard simply died 500 meters above Guadalupe Viejo.

My vehicle shuddered in mid-air. And, no longer immune to the laws of gravity, began to plummet.

400 meters.

The 1978 Valkyrie had been the model that elevated Morisato Motors' name among the skycar giants. It had flown out of the Morisato Imasagi plant five years before auxiliary power systems became mandatory for all vehicles that hovered higher than three meters.

I slam my hand on the dash hoping against hope that the lights would all come back on. Nothing.

300 meters.

Perhaps the Valkyrie got its name because some Morisato Motors employee had listened to Wagner at the Imperial Opera House a few decades ago. Or he had the vague idea that a Valkyrie was a kind of flying Norse deity.

Which was accurate. More or less.

Without power, trying to steer the Valkyrie is virtually impossible. I manage to smash a Nissan Strato's tail lights as I try to get the vehicle to hit the Pasig River instead of EDSA.

200 meters.

The smiley guy at the Clear Skies used aircar dealership in Banawe had promised, had sworn even, that I was getting a great deal for such a classic. He even threw in a service warranty. For life.

My nosedive is almost abruptly stopped by a HoverCab that barely manages to swerve away, horns blaring.

100 meters.

So.

If I die in a Valkyrie...would I end up in Valhalla?

FINDING NIRVANA

2005-08-01T17:20:00.000+08:00

Take the quiz: "Which Dead Rock Star Are You?"

Kurt Cobain
You are Kurt Cobain! You're grundgy, twisted and very talented. You have a certain charm and individuality that sets you a part from many. You are beautiful! Oh, he died in 1994 from a gun shot wound to the mouth. Suicide.

Found this rockin' quiz thanks to Gabie. Heheh.

20:27

2005-07-27T10:49:00.000+08:00

By the time my rounds bring me to the storage room, it was already waiting inside.

I stand by the doorway to regard the ugly representative of the lifeform that has brought so much fear, misery and death to mankind. From where it's casually perched, it seems to watch me. Calculating if I'd be able to use the metal cylinder in my hand before it makes it's move.

It had been a long war.

There are days when I'd wonder if humans would ever win.

And there are nights when I'd almost know we've lost long ago.

If the other humans have had similar thoughts, no one has spoken it out loud. Chalk it up to the resillience of the human spirit and all that.

The war goes on. Its scale global. Winner gets the fucking planet. Or gets it back. It's all a matter of perspective, I suppose.

A heartbeat lasts for an eon.

Then, the creature makes it's move. It lanches from its perch and, in pure malice, flies straight towards me. On behalf of humanity, I stand my ground.

Tonight, one of us will die. And, fuck, it wasn't going to be me.

Millions of years worth of evolution had given it wings. Well, evolution had given my kind fingers.

I take aim. And squeeze the trigger.

* * *

The blast of insecticide catches the cockroach mid-flight, and knocks it back against the wall.

THIRSTY

2005-07-13T14:30:00.000+08:00

There aren't enough beer-drinking sessions these days (or, rather, nights).

Either everyone's drinking less or I'm...

...

Awwww fuck.

NIL GAIMAN

2005-07-11T17:06:00.000+08:00

"That's the American way - they need to give people

an excuse to come and worship."

- American Gods

"Arrgh!" howled the wolves. "The people have

come out of the walls!"

-The Wolves In The Walls

I have a decent number of his books on my shelves. Though I don't have them, I had borrowed his graphic novels from friends. I follow his online journal. I've had an idea he'd be dropping by Manila since April.

But somehow, to the absolute horror of folks who know me (particularly those I've actually turned on to reading him) I didn't feel like I really had to see the great Neil Gaiman in the flesh.

At least, not as a sweaty fanboy.

For me, I guess it's simply a matter of faith.

Now.

I'm off to run with the wolves.

ONE FOR THE ROAD

2005-07-05T11:03:00.000+08:00

A Saturday night spent wandering around Glorietta and Greenbelt soon left me thirsting for beer.

There had been changes in my plans for dinner and maybe drinks afterwards for that evening (translation: it didn’t push through). The other folks I would have liked to hang out with were with their respective boyfriends/girlfriends, or were busy with work, or, were, as in Is It Safe’s case, somewhere in China. And as I mentioned, the people who invited me to join them elsewhere somehow weren’t on the list of those I would have wanted to see for that night.

So I ended up having beer by myself in one of my old haunts along Pasay Road.

Having a drink by one’s self can be a very intense experience.

That night, the moment was all mine. My thoughts were all mine. The beef tapa I ordered for bar chow was all mine.

I’ve done it before.

And it’s very likely that I’ll do it again.

I just hope I don’t get too used to it.

HEIR-RAISING

2005-06-27T11:19:00.000+08:00

Wakes are gloomier, drawn-out and butong pakwan and mani infested versions of the family reunions I hate attending. Aside from the usual reunion "You're so fat!" comment, and the lame "You still work...there?" (though nobody remembers where there really is) querry, wakes aren't excempt from the "Are you married?" line of questioning. And with wakes, the question spews out not only from the mouths of kin, but from acquaintances, strangers even, as well.

With every no I reply to questions on my being hitched, the reactions get worse.

"Why don't you get married?" is the most common. Of course, I don't really bother to expound on how I'd need to find a partner first. Unless they expect me to marry myself and reproduce through cellular division.

Tried to give the I'm still saving up reply, but I got "Nonsense! I didn't have enough money, yet I found a way. My kids are doing okay."

But I don't want a life that's just okay. I want a good life for my future family. I'd want my kids to have the things I didn't have. Particularly the things I still don't have to this day.

"You should get married," says a guy about five years older than I am. "Look at me. I have a kid in high school. We're like buddies."

Then again, if I needed buddies to hang with, I do believe that's what my friends are for.

"Get married so you'd get one of these," says a proud mother as she holds up her infant like a trophy.

I never bothered to remind her that reproduction can take place without a marriage license. In fact, if I really wanted to, I can name a few girls from her very own circle who found that out the hard way.

"My son already has four kids!" says the mother of a guy I went to high school with.

Well. I never realized it was a contest. And if the prize for not planning a family well is looking ten years older than his actual age, then I guess my former schoolmate won (I'd see him on the way to work from time to time, looking harassed and tired at 8:30 in the morning).

The last night of the wake, I approached my Mom just as one of my father's friends was interviewing her.

"And your son? Is he married?"

"No, not yet," says Mom.

"Well, I think he's still young enough. Thirty onwards is a good age to be married," says the lady as she turns towards me. "How old are you?"

Without blinking an eye, I reply with a smile.

"I'm twenty-five, Ma'am."

VIRGINIA

2005-06-21T12:28:00.000+08:00

As early as a couple of hours after my grandmother's death last Wednesday evening, I found myself volunteered to go through her things. First it was to search for documents the system demanded from bereaved relations. Immediately. Her Social Security ID, her Senior Citizen's ID, her memorial plan certificates, and so forth.

The next day, I hunted for photographs that would be displayed at the wake.

Just this morning, I went through some more albums and boxes of pictures for a missing photo of her with a schoolmate who eventually became Senate President (um...long story, and I couldn't find the said photo).

For decades, my grandmother had been called Manang Nena by relatives, Sister Nena by her church cronies, and Lola Nena by just about everyone else.

But in those moments I spent among dusty boxes, photo albums, strips of negatives, and dozens of Kodacolor and Florofoto envelopes, I caught glimpses of her as Virginia.

Virginia.

The young girl who was the apple of her Papa's eye. The lass living in the Commonwealth of the Philippines. The secretary working for the US Armed Forces. The new bride in post-war Baguio with the tall young architect who also worked for the USAFFE.

Among the lifetime's worth of photographs, I also saw how radiant Virginia with her flowing locks faded into somber Nena, who kept her hair tied in a tight bun.

Long before I began popping up among the pictures, she had already changed completely into Nena.

Still, Virginia used to sparkle through. From time to time.

When my grandmother would tell stories. Or when she'd sing grandnephews and nieces to sleep. Or when she'd remind me she made a fresh batch of jello (not to be called gulaman - the neighbors might hear).

I glimpsed Virginia again this morning when I found the Commencement Exercise program for Rizal High School, batch 1939. Along with the names and addresses of the graduates, the program listed Life's Plans. The boys mostly wanted to be soldiers or engineers. The girls mostly wanted to be teachers or nurses.

Virginia wanted to be a journalist.

MOMENT

2005-06-02T10:55:00.000+08:00

The rain fell as I walked along Makati Avenue last night.

And just as suddenly as it began, the downpour trickled away by the time I reached the bridge connecting Makati to Mandaluyong. Somewhat drenched (though my head, thanks to a generous helping of styling wax in my hair yesterday morning, remained relatively dry), I made my way across the concrete span.

As I reached the middle of the bridge, I heard the burst of fireworks from the riverbank behind me.

I turned.

To the left, blooms of light kaleidoscoped among Rockwell's steel and glass towers. On the right side, the horizon dominated by the hulk of Makati Cityhall was lit up with flashes and color.

For a moment, I stood still on the deserted, rain-drenched bridge to watch the display before continuing my journey home.

The only things missing were beautifully written narration, some subtitles to go along with the V.O., and poignant musical scoring.

TWENTY-FIVE

2005-06-01T21:17:00.000+08:00

Since a number of friends recently turned twenty-five (relax, girls - I won't name names), I decided to dig up this article from my archives as a belated birthday present. It's something I wrote for the Philippine Daily Inquirer's Youngblood when I hit that particular age...er...some years ago.

It started again.

That clock which counts down to a day I dread almost as much as Valentine's or Christmas began ticking once more. Though, come to think of it, it never really stops, does it? The ordinarily unobtrusive ticks and tocks just get a little louder a month before the yearly observance of my birth.

February usually finds me slithering away from my birthday. Being reminded of the fact that I'm getting older no longer thrilled me since the time I could legally watch R -18 flicks.

But this year, the ticking sounds a little more foreboding than usual.

This is no ordinary birthday.

No. I'm not turning 18 again (how I wish!). I'll be hitting the big two-five. And somehow, being a quarter of a century old is enough to make me take a long, hard look at life. Ask questions that wouldn't even be crossing my thoughts any other time of the year. Or any other time of the decade for that matter.

Back in high school, usually during algebra class, I fantasized happy fantasies on what my life would be like by the time I'm twenty-five.

Great job.

Fat salary.

Gorgeous wife.

Lovely kids.

Nice car.

The works.

Now, a decade later (Man! Has it really been that long?), I got to compare fantasy versus fact while I stared out a bus window on the way to Makati.

Job's okay. I found employment in an industry I've always wanted to be a part of. Though when the pals get together for coffee and talk about salaries and savings, I simply blend into the furniture. Hey! Nice chair! A friend who works in advertising production for roughly a week in a month gets more than I do from thirty days hard, office labor. Ghastly. Most new grads earn twice as much - that's a message of hope for you youngsters out there - as me.

Every last one of the girls I went out with in high school is a mommy now. Yes. Every. Last. One. A number of classmates from college are married, or are getting there. One way or another. On the other hand, I'm about as married as a shriveled mountaintop hermit with a mean old vow of celibacy.

And speaking of celibacy, my sex life last saw the light of day around the time when Twelve Monkeys still played in movie theaters instead of on cable.

Don't bother asking about kids. There are none.

And the car?

Ah, yes. The car.

As I mentioned earlier, I was contemplating my turning twenty-five while on a bus. Don't even have enough dough to buy a bicycle, let alone a cool, jet-black Galant. Or that classic, red-hot Mustang I've always wanted to have. I do get to take a cab once every two months, though. The heights of luxury, indeed!

Before I go on, I ought to set something straight.

This is not the whining of an alleged young adult. Nor is it downright overcast-skies-end-of-the-world- I-want-to-fucking-die-now gen-x pessimism.

It's simply an honest look at life through the eyes of someone older, or younger depending on which side of twenty-five you are right now.

Or if you're also turning twenty-five, it's an invitation to consider this event in your life. After all, misery just loooves company!

As I reach (hit? crash into?) this milestone, I used it to gauge how far I've come. How much farther I'd have to go. Twenty-five became a measuring stick where I compared what contemporaries have done against my own efforts involving the myriad aspects of life. Rest assured my reflections went beyond the paycheck and the car.

So. What answers did I get?

Life is okay, for starters. Not amazing or fabulous.

Okay.

And I'd definitely settle for okay than miserable or terrible.

Okay is not so bad. It leaves a lot of room for improvement.

As depressing as it turned out, this look at my life gave me the realization that I needed to push things further. It irritated me so much it shook me awake from complacency. Exorcised demons of mediocrity. Impelled me to strive for a better future.

Now, the clock whose alarm will be my birthday ticks.

Unfalteringly. Becoming louder as the days go by.

To tell you the truth, I am still apprehensive about turning twenty-five and not having much to show for it. But at least my goals are clearer now. I have realized that all is not lost. As long as all the junk food, alcohol, coffee and parties that lasted 'till sunrise don't take their toll, there is still enough time to make the old dreams come true.

Make something out of my life.

Be somebody.

When my birthday does come, and in the days, weeks, months and years that follow, I'll still be young enough to reach my goals. My whole life lies ahead of me. Well, most of it, at least. Incidentally, I've always suspected that for some folks, going for goals aren't really limited by physical age.

And, if I fail miserably this year?

You'll hear from me when I turn twenty-six.

Meanwhile, I'll be listening to the ticking of that clock.

LUNCH? ANYONE?

2005-05-27T11:31:00.000+08:00

AWE-INSPIRED

2005-05-27T11:17:00.000+08:00

Two creative demi-gods from our network's pantheon dropped by to share their divine wisdom with some lucky bastards from Manila. Being relatively lucky (and quite a bastard), I got to work with them on a....um...special project. Shhhh.

One of them stayed behind for a couple of days more to give a little talk and show us some of his work. He's a very pleasant, friendly guy from Singapore, and I (along with fellow blogger Canis Lupus) didn't mind helping him put up his work on the mini theater's walls. He unrolled the large, crumpled sheet of brown paper that contained his print ads and posters.

Some of them, I've seen before.

In magazines and books that featured advertising. Or, more accurately, magazines and books that featured only advertisments that are at least finalists of one international award-giving body or another.

I felt like a wanna-be impressionist painter who wandered into a gallery and ended up offering to help an artist put up his paintings of ballerinas up for an exhibit. One of the paintings turn out to be La Classe de Danse. And the artist is actually Edgar Degas.

Obviously, I was stunned. And rightly so.

I had the idea the guy was great. I didn't know he was fucking legendary.

When we finished pinning the materials up, I stood in the middle of the theater to watch the creativity leaping off the walls. Truth be told, in pure envy, I had cussed at the ones I had seen before. In about the same way that I cussed at the ones that I had just seen that day.

Fuck.

Before he flew back to Singapore, he declared that anyone of us could be better than him. That, who knows, maybe some day, he'd end up working for me.

Honestly? I do hope he's right about that.

Until that day comes, I'm content with knowing that I got to work with a master of his caliber.

And that, one afternoon, we got to share a plate of sizzling sisig.

DARTH WATCHER

2005-05-17T13:10:00.000+08:00

I thought I'd be spending Monday night watching Star World like I usually do. But then, by a glorious twist of fate and an extra set of advance screening tickets, I ended up sipping white wine and eating little sandwiches with friends next to a table of models.

Then, we got to plop our butts on VIP seats (after we kicked out authentic VIPs in their nice VIP clothes - such was the awesome power contained within those tickets), and we got to watch my favorite ex-Jedi:

This particular set of perks sure cheered me up. The way that the Star Wars logo and the blaring theme followed by the crawling prologue always cheered me up. Even for Episode I.

So Tanya and BJ (and, of course, Eclectic Curiosity who introduced me to them), if ever you find your way to this blog, you have my thanks.

Oh.

And may the force be with you.

FRIDAY

2005-05-13T10:29:00.000+08:00

This morning, the FX I got on had windows tinted decently enough to tone down the glare outside. The air conditioners were working, and working great - an assurance that everyone in the vehicle will be delivered to Makati cool, fresh (and possibly, crisp). The radio played, and rightly so, The Cure's Friday I'm In Love.

I love it when a Friday behaves the way a Friday should.

Even if it's a Friday the Thiteenth.

GOIN' SOUTH

2005-05-09T16:15:00.000+08:00

Customised from a site He Who Sings told me about. Will put up a link when I remember how. For now, here's the URL: http://www.planearium2.de/flash/spstudio.html Heh.

LOOKIE LOOKIE, WOOKIE

2005-05-04T10:04:00.000+08:00

For Dodo. From Penny Arcade. Click to...um...enlarge, kiddies.

WHIFF

2005-05-03T16:01:00.000+08:00

Summer colds, like the one I just had, inevitably take me back to an April day from long ago.

Once again, I am a kid a fresh out of high school by a couple of weeks. A kid who, instead of staying in bed to nurse a cold, decides that hanging out was a better idea. Even if it means riding a bus and a jeep through the baking asphalt streets.

An entire afternoon is squandered on the Family Computer, with all of us believing that Battle City is probably as good as gaming would get.

The sun sets and, like juvenile vampires, we come alive. We clamber into a car and head out into the night. Hoping against hope, as all teenage boys do, to…ahem…get lucky. The ride is soundtracked by Summer of ‘69 (which I heard isn’t actually about the year 1969) because a friend is in a Brian Adams phase, and he just got the tape.

We feel giddy. Exhilarated. Invincible. Perhaps it is the afterglow from our recent graduation. Perhaps it is because the new chapters in our lives known as college and real life seem harmlessly, though deceptively distant.

Perhaps it is just because we anointed ourselves with buckets of Drakkar Noir and we forgot to roll down the windows.

Whatever the reason, that night, everything seems possible.

Even for a kid with a cold.

BLESS YOU

2005-04-22T13:52:00.000+08:00

Web comic Penny Arcade gave me a good enough reason to say 'bless you' when people sneeze.

Clicky clicky kiddies

GRUELING

2005-04-21T18:17:00.000+08:00

Lugaw. A rice porridge popular in Asia. Usually as breakfast fare.

Lugaw. Depending on which dialect, the Chinese call it either zhōu or juk. The Japanese call it kayu. In English, congee is the word.

Lugaw. The gruel that has been my chief source of sustenance since I had a molar pulled out last week. The only thing I can ingest without any serious chewing requirements.

I’ve eaten lugaw at the street vendor’s. I’ve eaten lugaw cooked at home. I’ve even eaten lugaw bought from the street vendor at home.

...

When this ordeal is over, I’m having a slab of steak with buttered veggies on the side.

DEMOLARIZED

2005-04-16T17:17:00.000+08:00

The young dentist (well... a year or so younger than me, I think) inquired if I'd be needing a cleaning when I entered her office.

Judging by the pain that had been tormenting me for several days, I knew that she won't be able to return to her Yahoo Messenger cum web cam session as quickly as she hoped.

By the time I left her office, the day had started to fade. My dentist's computer had long gone to sleep.

And I was missing a wisdom tooth, and spitting blood every few seconds.

Spit.

On the way home (not that far, really - the clinic is just next door), I marveled at how my petite dentist had managed to exert so much effort pulling my molar out with her pliers-thingie. I'm quite sure her biceps had grown significantly after our session. For a time, it had seemed that she'd end up pulling my skull out through my mouth. But if that had happened, I probably wouldn't have felt it thanks to the anesthesia.

Which had started to wear off.

Spit.

I took the pain killers that had been my new, good friend for the past days. Sitting still on my bed as I waiting for it to kick in seemed like a good idea. Though every so often, I had to get a handy plastic bag and...

Spit.

Ice cream suddenly was a very appealing idea and I headed for the fridge. Rocky road. But I didn't want to be picky.

As I sucked the ice cream from a spoon, careful not to get nuts or marshmallows into the new, toothless hole in my gums, I tried to remember what the dentist said I can't do for the next few days.

Can't lift heavy stuff. Can't smoke. Can't eat fishy food.

I vaguely wondered if sex (or anything...um...along those lines) was okay, since she didn't mention it. Calling a lady dentist to check if it was okay for me to whack off felt wrong on several levels.

Oh well.

Guess there's one way to find out.

Spit.

LOSSES

2005-04-08T09:01:00.000+08:00

Certain events occured when I watched the series Lost for the first time last night.

I promptly lost conciousness.

And when I woke up this morning, my poor old tv had lost the ability to switch on.

CHICKEN A LA CAVE

2005-04-05T10:14:00.000+08:00

A chicken drumstick lay waiting on the table when I got home from overtime work. The Mongolian beef bowl dinner I had a few hours before was long gone. The chicken. Well. It seemed like such a good idea.

My rumbling gut agreed.

Now, anyone who has any idea how I eat would know I would use a fork even for chicken wings. Not because I'm punctilious about table manners and cleanliness. It's actually the opposite, really: I'm too fucking lazy to wash my hands.

But not this night.

Without bothering to sit down before the table, I grabbed the chicken with my paw. The first bite made me grin as fowl-flesh touched my tongue. As grease warmed my mouth and my hand.

When I took the second bite, from across the millennia my cave-dwelling ancestors squatting before their fire grunted and nodded in approval.

Oooga booga.

KNELL

2005-04-04T09:58:00.000+08:00

One evening in 1981, I stood along Shaw Boulevard with my father. We were among thousands who gathered under the moonlight, waving white and yellow flags and Amo Te banners, waiting for a glimpse of his motorcade heading for nearby Villa San Miguel, home to the Archbishop of Manila.

I was expecting him to be in a black limo. Instead, when the motorcade arrived, he was in a bus. From the well-lit interior, among seated cardinals, he stood waving and blessing the crowd outside.

One afternoon in 1995, I sat on the UST football field with some classmates, the other 'pagans' from the group (the devout Catholics from the gang weren't allowed to come because of the crowds). We were supposed to have a World Youth Day sign like the rest of the people. However, the guy who made the art paper and cartolina sign for us had written WE LOVE YOU, POPE JOHN II. And he was saddened when I told him that was the wrong pope (one that was dead for about 1,500 years).

It was hot. It was crowded. But when he appeared on the grandstand, by then with the aid of a cane, it was worth the wait.

Yesterday morning, as I had been watching the news of his passing, I tried to fight back tears.

And lost.

I never agreed with him all the time. At least, not on issues like contraception (I'd buy so much condoms that I'd earn dissaproving looks from drug store counter girls).

But I do respect him.

He will be missed.

JOHANNES PAVLVS II.

REQVIESCAT IN PACE.

PARCHED

2005-03-29T08:58:00.000+08:00

In my room, the industrial fan begins to blow warm air. The atmosphere greedily sucks up moisture from the only available source in the area - me.

My throat turns as disturbingly dry as my sex life.

I put down the book I had been reading, but remained seated on the mattress for a minute.

Then five.

I reach over to check my wristwatch.

11:31.

At night.

I sigh and finally manage get up and go for a glass of water.

Shit.

Why do I get the feeling it's going to be a long, hot summer?

LENTEN SPECIAL

2005-03-25T21:58:00.000+08:00

Cable television.

The whole Holy Week experience in Manila has been transformed by cable television.

Before cable tv, there would be nothing to watch on the local channels except lenten specials (which featured everyone and their mothers lip-synching to Jesus Christ Superstar). Then, by Holy Thursday up until Black Saturday, there was nothing to watch at all (unless you liked looking at thousands of flickering, swarming silvery dots and listening to static hiss). When the three or so stations did come to life for a few hours, they would feature the prescribed Holy Week fare. Which meant any old movie with bearded men, Roman legions and/or robes.

Flash forward to now, less than an hour after watching a movie with bearded men, Rohan riders and elven cloaks on HBO.

It's day two of the holday, and the DVD stash I was supposed to go through remains unwatched.

My flick snack stash (hurriedly gathered yesterday before the shops closed) however is already missing two bags of chips, a can of beer and about half the contents of a Nips canister. But I am confident it will last until Sunday.

A SMILE AND A SIGH

2005-03-23T16:01:00.000+08:00

Recently, someone from the Chicago office dropped by to take a look at the work Manila had done. He was a Creative Director, if I remember correctly (sorry... nasty past few weeks = short-term memory loss). Which, based on factors such as the currency convertion rates and colonial mentality, meant he was probably something closer to a deity.

He found a seat directly in front of me when the team gathered at the mini theater (well...12 comfy seats before a screen) to view the materials. I'd hear him go "Mmm-hmmm. Mmm-hmmm." or "Nice." as images of recent advertising efforts came on the screen.

Then, a print ad I've done came up.

He looked at the screen.

And he laughed.

Behind him, I grinned.

He got the joke.

Being from advertising, it was almost expected that he was quick on the uptake.

However, to be able to make someone from a different continent and a different generation laugh with just a picture and a sentence is, for me, a magical experience.

And what about the print ad?

It's basically the reason why I'm still at work with the art director long after everyone else had gone home for the holidays. Due to be released for publication in a few hours, the print ad had long since been modified, altered and adjusted. Bigger product. Larger fonts. Oh, and more copy, please. You've heard it all before.

The battle to keep it as simple, as pristine as it was that afternoon in the mini theater had been lost.

All I have now is the memory that, once upon a time, it actually worked.

Right now, that'll have to do.

STIR

2005-03-14T09:47:00.000+08:00

Friday found me lined up at the Korean counter of an office building (not ours - legend has it there used to be a canteen...but only ghosts hang out there now) food court.

Ordered the Stir-Fried Beef.

When lunch arrived on my tray, I had to check with the counter lady if it was what I ordered.

It was.

As I sat down to eat with two other guys from creative, I pondered how my lunch, with peppers and a somewhat creamy sauce, didn't look stirred (ladled perhaps, but not stirred), let alone fried. Also, its pale, grayish color made me think of pork instead of beef.

Uh oh.

I think I just ate a metaphor.

FINN

2005-03-06T17:54:00.000+08:00

Friday
8:48 a.m.
Somewhere Else

People often said Finn had my smile. Which, in turn (along with the family name and a nice brown jacket), I had inherited from my own old man.

But today, as he sat beside me on the passenger seat and stared ahead, Finn sure pouted like his mother.

The way she'd certainly pout on Sunday when she gets back from her team building seminar in Cebu. When she finds out that Finn got late for school because I didn't take the route she recommended.

I hadn't driven Finn to school (where my father and I were alumni) in two months, and had no idea that half of a street along my familiar route had been a stretch of rubble, heavy machinery, huge concrete pipes and SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE signs for the past week. Traffic had moved about an inch per minute. The U2 (Best of 1980-1990) cd helped calm me down a bit, and made having to stare at the bumper-stickered back of a van for the past hour somewhat bearable. Though Bono and the gang couldn't quite change the fact that my son had already missed an entire period for this morning, and we were nowhere near the school.

"Finn," I said, turning down the volume on All I Want Is You just a bit.

He turned to look at me - a boy in a school uniform just like the ones I had worn two decades ago. Only different.

"Hey. Don't you worry, Kiddo. Dad's going to talk to the teacher when we get to school, okay? I'm very sorry you're late. "

"It's okay Dad," Finn looked away after a ghost of a smile. Then, he spoke once more in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "I don't wanna attend P.E. anyway."

Oh.

P.E.

I realized my fingers had been drumming on the steering wheel. I stopped, and adjusted the can of pine-scented air feshener instead.

"It's basketball this quarter, right?"

He looked down to trace the seatbelt buckle with a finger, and nodded.

Ah.

Basketball.

"Tell you what, Kiddo. Let's ask your Tito William to show you some basketball moves next time he drops by the house. That okay?"

Finn nods once more.

I reach out to ruffle his hair.

"Yeah. That's my Kiddo."

Basketball.

Sorry, Finn. My bad.

I sighed quietly.

Then I realized Finn was watching me.

I smiled at him.

He smiled back. With my smile.

And Bono started to wrap up the song.

SOME OF ALL FEARS

2005-03-04T16:31:00.000+08:00

If some of the things that keep my grandmother awake at night (she mostly sleeps on the couch during the day, but insists it's not true when people remind her of that fact) ever come to pass:

The house (in the event it's not stolen by sneaky lawyers, relatives or lawyer relatives) would burn to the ground because of exploding LPG tanks and/or cellphones (yes, exploding cellphones) while we are being murdered in our beds by an assortment of burglars and terrorists.

Which may be not be so bad because we may already be suffering from diabetes, the lack of potassium (asked her what it was for - she didn't have a clue), lung damage from the incense sticks I light from time to time, and/or osteoporosis.

PARALLELWISE TRIPS

2005-03-01T13:42:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, the walls that divide The-Way-Things-Are from What-Could-Have-Been are so thin that I can almost see flashes of what my otherselves see. Feel what they're going through. Hear their thoughts in my mind.

So begins a series of glimpses. Of lives lived Now.

But not Here.

In truths that lie parallelwise.

STRAIN

Friday
8:48 a.m.
Somewhere Else

Everyone learned a lot of new words over the past week. Fancy terms like Antigenic Shift.

Pandemic.

Highly Pathogenic.

However, after blood spewed from that field reporter's mouth while she was on national television, I realized that all these big words would be of no use in a matter of days. Or hours.

It was just as scientists and health workers had feared. Avian Flu Strain H5N1, first detected in the country when a family of 6 died after a lechong manok dinner last Saturday, had mutated. Instead of avian to human transmission, the virus now jumped from human to human.

Since people didn't have antibodies to counter something that infected poultry, fighting the original strain had been difficult enough. After the mutation, the rate of infection quadrupled in less than a day. Mortality now took place within minutes instead of weeks. And there are spine-chilling speculations that subsequent mutations would be airborne. Compared to this outbreak, the global flu epidemic La Grippe, which killed about 30 million people in the aftermath of the first world war, would look like a case of sniffles passed around a neigborhood.

Major cities in the National Capital Region had been quarantined for the last 27 hours. An hour ago, the quarantine was extended over the entire metropolis and the towns clustered around it. It wasn't clear how the army, certainly suffering casualties among their ranks, would ever manage to seal off 636 square kilometers of urban sprawl populated by 10 million people who won't even line up properly at the bus stops. But at least I'd be free to move around the metropolis, and find my way home without getting shot.

I convinced myself that my chances would be better if I walked home instead of getting into an enclosed public transport. Not that many of them were still plying the routes anyway.

About forty minutes after I left the office, with a rubbing alcohol-soaked handkerchief over my nose and mouth, I saw the looter.

I had halted in my tracks to assess a particular house a few meters away along my path.

Its gates were wide open for a car that never quite made it into the driveway. From where I stood, it looked like a bag of blood had burst inside the vehicle, and had spattered the windshield and rolled-up windows.

As I was preparing to cross the street, the looter emerged from the gaping gateway.

The looter wore an old basketball jersey, baggy shorts and grimy slippers. He cradled a DVD player in his arms, power cord dangling down to his knees.

He couldn't have been older than 16.

Before the looter could run off, he suddenly began coughing. His prize flew from his arms and shattered on the pavement when he reached up to clutch his throat.

His eyes were wide with terror as he fell on his knees. Gasping for breath, gripping his neck, he crouched over the metallic debris that had burst out of the player. Over the distant wail of sirens, I heard him wheezing.

Choking.

Sobbing.

Soon, he shall start coughing blood.

I pressed the handkerchief closer to my face and crossed the street.

DOGGED

2005-02-18T17:23:00.000+08:00

From Jonathan Carrol's blog: Be the person your dog thinks you are.

In my dog's case, I'll be the-creature-on-two-legs-who-scratches-my-tummy-whenever-I-roll-over-to-have-it-scratched.

So.

Anyone want a tummy rub?

STATIC-FREE

2005-02-09T13:13:00.000+08:00

Dropped by Anti-Static's office to... um... sniff around (heheh), when, lo and behold! I meet the man himself as I waited for the elevator ride to their floor.

It was pure serendipity, for had I not gotten off at the wrong side of Buendia, I would have been there earlier, and would have missed his arrival by minutes.

We managed to exhange vital info in the span of two cigs at his awesome nicotine perch 26 floors above the pavement (that spot makes for prime duskwatching, I tell ya).

And while no debris fell as he spoke about the wonders of his world, my jaw sure did.

SOUND THE ALARMS

2005-02-02T13:40:00.000+08:00

Several alarms went off in my head the moment she strolled into Congo Grill last Saturday night.

The type of alarms that are tripped by a pretty face. A delicously creamy complexion. Flowing, raven hair. A fine figure. A mean tribal tatoo peeking out between the back of a little black shirt and straight-cut jeans.

I was with Souljacker that night. Beer, cigs and whatever it was we were talking about were all forgotten as we both fell silent out of sheer awe.

Then.

A different alarm went off when I saw her three companions.

She was on a double date.

And she had a girlfriend.

ANI-Me 1

2005-01-30T18:39:00.000+08:00

Be An Anime Character by mangacatgirl
Character Name
Eyes	Green
Hair	Short Black Spikey Hair
Fashion Style	Black Leather
Attitude	Always Hungry
Role	Mech Pilot

Quiz created with MemeGen!

I was so amused by this quiz...

ANI-Me 2

2005-01-30T18:38:00.000+08:00

...That I just had to draw this pic:

Just made myself hungry. Gah.

RING IT ON!

2005-01-28T08:43:00.000+08:00

You Know You're Addicted to LotR When...

You start quoting from the movie as part of regular conversation.

You like to tell your mom that you are hungry by quoting: "Merry, I'm hungry."

She used to just laugh, but now she says, "What would you like to eat, Pippin?"

You continually ask your parents for second breakfast.

All the staff at your local cinema knows you by your first name and even before you open your mouth to speak, they say "Ticket for 'Fellowship of The Ring?'"

You hate Burger King food, butyou ate nothing else for a month to get the toys.

You've crammed up your computer's memory by downloading every single screensaver from www.LordoftheRings.net

You wander around the house in a knee length nightie, pyjama trousers and an unfastened dressing gown (to give you a train). You are trying to be an elf, and actually manage to forget that the nightie is blue with dolphins, the trousers have teddies on and the dressing gown is tartan.

Your Lord of the Rings shirt has not yet met the washing machine.

You don't have enough money to buy groceries for the next week before payday, yet you charge £50 on your credit card to get a three year charter membership in the official LOTR fan club. Who needs food anyway?

You refer to parts of your town as parts of Middle-Earth.

You wear hobbitish clothing as part of your normal wardrobe.

You sometimes let your hair go curly after a wash, and then run around the house in bare feet yelling "I'm a hobbit!"

You hate it when Elves are only thought of as 'Santa's little helpers' and have tried to explain the difference between Santa-elves and Syrian Elves to your 5-year old cousins.

You speak in Quenya just to annoy your friends.

You refer to regular elephants as oliphaunts.

While buttering a piece of bread, you suddenly think of Bilbo (remember when he was talking to Gandalf about feeling tired) saying that he felt 'like butter spread over too much bread.'

You renamed your car the Wraith-mobile.

You have a replica of The One Ring.

You are beginning to resemble a panda due to the fact that you've stayed up until 2 am reading and re-reading the great books.

You actually managed to read the Silmarillion without being tempted to give up on this whole middle earth malarkey.

You now have a lifetime fear of black horses!

You haven't removed the soundtrack from your CD player since you bought it.

You have sssudenly developed a hisssing lisssp every time you sssay the letter ssss.

You have looked both on the net and in the phone book to see if archery and sword fighting lessions are offered in your area.

You have begun calling your husband / wife / girlfriend/ boyfriend / animal or kid my precioussss.

You happily traveled over an hour to the next town to see "it" because that theater has a better sound system than the one 5 minutes down the road.

You have called every theatrical or specialty makeup company in town looking for pointy ear or hairy feet prosthetics.

You've worn your plastic "one ring" that came on your Legolas bookmark so much the gold is completely worn off.

You've begun drafting a letter to the Webster's dictionary people requesting that they include "Ringers" in their next edition.

At Christmas time relatives find you chatting with the tree and sharing eggnog draughts

Single ads with the description," short plump and big hairy feet" seem much more appealing.

You know The LoTR history better then your family history.

You have a mouse named Frodo, a bird named Gollum, and a dog named Gandalf. And that cat that keeps coming around to be petted is Legolas.

You know Elvish better then English.

Whenever something goes wrong, it's Sauron's fault.

When you sing in the shower, it's always about Gil-Galad or hobbit walking songs...

You know everything about Middle Earth geography, but you can't get someone from your house to the ice cream parlor. Now the nearest movie theater, that is a different story.

You think the names of the 7 dwarves from Snow White are: Gimli, Gloin, Thorin, Gili, Nili, Ori, and Bambour.

You have developed your own special Tolkien handwriting. "A firm, flowing script..."

Words like "Yrch" make sense to you.

You've become strangely obsessed with mushrooms.

Whenever you close a door, you say "They have a cave troll!"

When you come to a dead end you're still convinced that the road goes ever on and on.

There's a sign on your door saying "Speak Friend and enter!"

Whenever you get a chance, you burst into song. Preferably one that has more than 20 verses.

You change your name by deed poll to a Tolkien character and seriously consider naming your children after LOTR characters.

Every time you see birds in the sky you have the urge to say "Fly you fools!"

When someone knocks on your door you grab them, pull them inside and ask "Are you frightend?... Not nearly frightend enough!"

Your computer's screensaver is a marquee reading, "Ennyn Durin atan Moria: pedo mellon a mino" and the password is actually "mellon".

You cannot see a beer without blurting out "It comes in pints? I'm getting one!"

You just can't keep yourself from saying "nobody tosses a Dwarf" at inappropriate moments.

A shadow and a threat is growing in your mind.

You now referring to your friends as your 'Fellowship' and insist that you have epic adventures.

You stand in the doorway and tell your cat that he 'Can not pass'.

You wash your face in the sink and expect to see things that are, that have been or that will be.

Your wedding band has started to weigh you down with it's evil powers.

Spending $35 at the grocery store seems expensive but its Perfectly fine to spend $70 on the Hardcover LOTR book with Alan Lee Illustrations.

You start keeping a LOTR Journal to write poems and inklings in.

You face every difficult decision with the thought "now what would Gandalf advise me to do?"

You know what Entmoot, Ent draught, or an Ent is for that matter

You've gained 20 pounds because you've started eating a "Second Breakfast"

A walking stick... you never leave home with out it.

You actually get these jokes and pass them on to other friends who are addicted to Lord of the Rings.

Get Your Own Addicted Meme Here

More cool things for your blog at
Blogthings

I'm actually guilty of thinking about Bilbo's analogy while buttering my toast one morning. And a shadow and a threat is actually growing in my mind.

Um...

...

GANDAAAAALF?!

AROMA

2005-01-21T08:52:00.000+08:00

Lunch.

At the parked van where meals are sold. Tapa. Fried bangus. Porkchop. Laing. Sinigang. Pipino sandwiches pretending to be cheeseburgers. Double orders of rice the norm rather than the exception. That sort of van.

A lanky man goes up to the counter and picks Mechado in one of the small, tightly-knotted plastic bags.

And smells it.

He goes through five more bags, repeating the ritual. I suppose he actually was capable of smelling food through plastic, for he was able to select a particular bag.

When he leaves, I choose one of the Mechado bags that he hadn't picked up and held close to his nose.

DREAM ON

2005-01-14T09:25:00.000+08:00

Which Member of the Endless Are You?

Is this why I've been so sleepy the past few days?

TELLTALE GLITTER

2005-01-14T09:05:00.000+08:00

Golden glitter had been smeared on the Makati Avenue pavement.

It could have come from a fallen Christmas decoration thingie.

Or maybe some guy who had been in a long coma ('coz of a breakdancing accident) woke up thinking it was still sometime before 1990, generously applied glitter and gel into his hair, and had been walking to find a hip disco like Mars or Euphoria, but tripped, fell and hit his head on the concrete, and slipped into a coma once more.

HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, KID.

2005-01-13T13:33:00.000+08:00

Saw this quiz in Chockwit's LJ. Decided to take it as well (um...slow day at work). And the result was:

"You must remember this, a kiss is still a
kiss". Your romance is Casablanca. A
classic story of love in trying times, chock
full of both cynicism and hope. You obviously
believe in true love, but you're also
constantly aware of practicality and societal
expectations. That's not always fun, but at
least it's realistic. Try not to let the Nazis
get you down too much.

What Romance Movie Best Represents Your Love Life?
brought to you by Quizilla

Hmmmm. Time to hide from the Nazis, then.

WEIRDO

2005-01-13T08:44:00.000+08:00

Not all creatives are weird.

The same way that not all weirdos are creative.

Sometimes, weird is just plain fucking weird.

Those types...they gimme the creeps.

*shudders*