Monday, October 16, 2006 A.D.
Stuck Up Pussies
Cats are clever animals. Two little kittens have made their way into our roof and have resided in it for the past two days. It's something of a mystery how they found themselves in there in the first place when it would have meant that they squeezed themselves into holes not larger than 3x3 inches (or through some other secret entry into our roof).
My brother discovered them peering through the roof's ventilation grillwork although he had actually first heard them mewing two nights ago. The clever little kitties have been stuck there for two days, two floors up. They have trapped themselves under the section of the roof that's along the perimeter of our house and were thus only visible from outside. You could actually hear them cry for help every five minutes or so but you could only look at them with their little padded feet poking through the ventilation grid because that particular section of the roof could only be opened up with the aid of a really tall stepladder and a carpenter, unfortunately.
The playful creatures were probably just obeying their natural instincts. They must have chased after some mouse and spent the night in the comfort of that enclosed second storey space only to find out the morning after that their heads have grown larger overnight. Regardless, I fear that if we didn't get them out soon, we'd discover just how much two cute little kittens could stink up a house by dying of starvation. I wouldn't have that, of course. I could probably feed them with a wet sponge at the end of a stick before they blame their father for having forsaken them although it's probably better to simply take advantage of the same instincts that led them there by driving them out in a similar way. Finding a mouse to act as bait would be difficult, for sure. Instead, I'm going to borrow the neighbor's loud and possibly rabid mongrel of a dog and let nature take its course by tossing him up the roof with my good arm. It's not exactly rocket science, but it's still science (and science can be a lot of fun).
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My brother discovered them peering through the roof's ventilation grillwork although he had actually first heard them mewing two nights ago. The clever little kitties have been stuck there for two days, two floors up. They have trapped themselves under the section of the roof that's along the perimeter of our house and were thus only visible from outside. You could actually hear them cry for help every five minutes or so but you could only look at them with their little padded feet poking through the ventilation grid because that particular section of the roof could only be opened up with the aid of a really tall stepladder and a carpenter, unfortunately.
The playful creatures were probably just obeying their natural instincts. They must have chased after some mouse and spent the night in the comfort of that enclosed second storey space only to find out the morning after that their heads have grown larger overnight. Regardless, I fear that if we didn't get them out soon, we'd discover just how much two cute little kittens could stink up a house by dying of starvation. I wouldn't have that, of course. I could probably feed them with a wet sponge at the end of a stick before they blame their father for having forsaken them although it's probably better to simply take advantage of the same instincts that led them there by driving them out in a similar way. Finding a mouse to act as bait would be difficult, for sure. Instead, I'm going to borrow the neighbor's loud and possibly rabid mongrel of a dog and let nature take its course by tossing him up the roof with my good arm. It's not exactly rocket science, but it's still science (and science can be a lot of fun).
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Thursday, October 05, 2006 A.D.
Odds and Sods
If one were born with two heads and seven arms, one could start questioning God and how His divine wisdom could have allowed for one's existence. Having been born a genetic anomaly, one would understandably start looking for answers, even though it's not likely that one would be handed a complete explanation in one's lifetime about the state of things.
The truth is that creation is one big four-dimensional jigsaw puzzle where everything fits into a certain context. Humans are humans too, you know. After all, when you meet someone with two heads and seven arms, you don't laugh. You will act as humanly as possible in that situation, which more or less means asking for a photo-op using your camera-phone before running away in revulsion as if fire ants have somehow appeared inside your underpants (but remembering to say thanks - that's important). Everything does belong (except perhaps you during grade school, thanks to your poor bowel control).
I'm not here to poke fun at genetic catastrophes. For sure they are wrong, but they were wrought by divine hands, and aren't for us to really comprehend. One other thing I cannot comprehend is how, with our feeble human minds, we still encounter man-made oddities that are in many levels just as wrong as someone with two heads and seven arms - just as wrong and just as difficult to make sense of. Man is confounding, simply put. Man is a funny little creature, a cosmological bumper sticker that is proof of God's sense of humor.
You will forgive me for my overly dramatic introduction when all I really want to do is show some more stuff that I have collected over the past few months, a bunch of man-made oddities that man himself wasn't meant to comprehend fully.
Superior Android Jehad Robot - In a possible future, religious conflict has escalated into a holy war involving giant humanoid robots. These Jehad Robots suspiciously look like Japanese mechas (Gundams, particularly). In another surprising twist, these Mohammedan super-robots are organized into a color-coordinated team of five like your standard sentai (ranger) collective. You know them, of course: there's the red leader, the bad boy black ranger, the yellow female, the green newbie and the less interesting blue ranger who is tasked to either be the gentle giant, the comic relief or the other female in the team. The Japanese involvement is all too obvious, but as to how a predominantly Buddhist country like Japan has somehow gotten involved in the conflict between Moslems and Christians is a question that only the murky future holds the answer for (I have a suspicion that they have also engineered Crusade Robots for the Vatican as war profiteers).
These four-inch plastic representations of the Jehad Robots appear to have been wholly cast in single-color plastic with uniform applications of gold and silver paint. The package itself absolves Japan of any involvement in the holy war by largely printing 'Made in China' visibly below the blister. The best piece of text on the package, however, is the one partially obscured by the green robot, which reads, 'Special mission! Once own nothing can instead, hero of the present age'. The manufacturer was also considerate enough to print a warning message, stating that the small parts could pose choking hazards for children under 3, which would have been great had small parts actually been included. Really, show me a three-year-old who can choke on a solid four-inch tall humanoid piece of plastic and I'll show you a world of possibilities (regretably, most of these possibilities involve porn, with the exception of a possible circus stint).
Events of late haven't really done anything to resolve the centuries' worth of religious intolerance but have instead set Muslim-Christian relations back by years and years more (whoever thought of electing Palpatine into the papacy?). At the rate that we are going, Muslim-Christian relations will soon get set back a couple of thousand years more, which will be a good thing since we'll find ourselves at our religions' infacies and thus with a clean slate. I shouldn't even touch upon an issue as sensitive as religious conflict, I know, but the concept of a Jehad Robot is just too weird to ignore. Whoever made the Jehad Robot probably wanted to introduce Gundam bootlegs into the muhajeedins-under-ten set (and I hope it doesn't give them ideas). Regardless, Jehad Robots are definitely so much cooler than Popemobiles (what next, Popesignals? Popearangs?).
Penegra - So maybe this one isn't too bad. You see, some Indian pharmaceutical companies are not required to pay royalties to the rightful drug manufacturers in order for them to keep their medicine affordable for the vast Indian population (1 billion plus and counting), and this one is essentially a pirated version of Viagra. I can understand the need to provide cheap medicine to the Indian people, and Penegra is indeed much cheaper than Viagra (like 80% cheaper). There are other cheap Indian brands available, although I remember only this and Suhagra. Then again, wouldn't making a number of Viagra clones that are cheaper than a cheese sandwich only cause an upswing in their population? I'll let the analysts figure out the micro and macro ramifications regarding that (Indian males will undoubtedly have their own micro and macro ramifications after downing a tablet).
The Penegra tablet is different from Viagra only in color, as the package proudly so attests ('It is now PINK' - I love how gender typing isn't that big an issue in India). The dosage also probably differs, with this being a 50mg dose. A box holds four tablets, ensuring two happy weekends for some couple in Rajasthan (who will 'get more out of life', as the tagline promises with a heart). The package is rich with images that I find very interesting. The brand name is printed under the generic name in bold capital letters. In itself, the brand already speaks volumes: Pene-gra (the 'pene' comes first before the 'gra', a syllable which will be repeatedly uttered in steady bursts). The familiar rounded diamond tablet is used as an arrowhead for the logo, making the strikeout motif look like a rather erect swimming tadpole that can easily pene-trate through bold letters and cell membranes. The lower-left corner of the box shows a happy male chicken with a knowing smile (a symbolic promise to males that they will have happy -err- roosters). The upper-right corner shows a couple. Just looking at the image can kill an erection, a situation that the pink contents can thankfully remedy in a few minutes. We see a man and woman, whom we assume are husband and wife. Suspiciously, the man is sporting this really big grin on his face that's no doubt directly proportional to the stretchability of his underpants. The woman has a look of unease on her face as if she got prodded by a dubious blunt object outside the confines of the photo, and it somehow feels that we are witnessing a case of marital rape (it doesn't help that the man looks like someone who would have been beaten up by Da King in a classic FPJ flick). Rememer: pene first before the gra.
Please don't ask me where I got these tablets. I really can't help you (I'm sorry, frend). No, they're not from my dad, and no, I don't need them yet (something with the opposite effect should help, actually). I'm not going to take them for fun either because walking around with a seeming strap-on doesn't sound like fun. Spiking someone's coffee with a tablet does sound like a lot of fun though, especially if the boss has a private coffee maker and is due for a company presentation.
Cigarette Candies - Kids love play acting and boys usually get all sorts of role playing sets to help them imagine themselves as doctors, policemen, cowboys, indians, carpenters, accountants, strip club managers, among countless other roles. Girls, on the other hand, don't really get a lot of choices, since they usually only get a cooking set (three cheers for gender roles). It really helps for the boys to have a lot of choices since their attention spans last about as long as a cat in a microwave. The girls really don't have to complain about having only a cooking set since it often comes with 42 accessories, which last longer than the boys' toys since they don't use them to hit things with. It was fun. The alpha boy goes through his busy day working various jobs as a doctor, policeman, cowboy, indian, carpenter, accountant and strip club manager, and goes home to his 'wife', 'kids' (other children who are slightly younger than the 'married couple' but who will grow up with some confidence issues), and their 'dog' (serious confidence issues). He changes into his slippers and wifebeater, puts down his hard earned play money on the table, which his 'wife' is setting ready for dinner, and takes out a pack of cigarette candies faster than he can say, "Where's my dinner, woman?"
They are two words that don't naturally go together, unless 'quit' somehow figures into the equation, but cigarette candies were quite popular some 20 years ago and were even sold openly in school canteens (at least where I went for grade school). Cigarette candies are simply two compressed sugar sticks in a box labeled like a cigarette pack. Confectioners had to come up with novel ways of selling the same cheap candies back then and cigarettes were quite novel for children who wanted to grow up to be like their chain smoking daddies. To start with, however, they didn't look like cigarettes. They were blockish sticks that were colored as they are flavored, with grape and orange flavors being the most common (there was no way for you to identify the flavor by the packaging alone).
It was indeed a less sensitive time then, otherwise the very idea of an edible play cigarette that was sold in schools would have forced parents to file protests against school administrations. In a way, however, we always knew that it was simply a candy and not some gateway confection that could have surely led us to chain smoking, especially since we knew what real cigarettes looked like. The candies didn't even have make-believe filters. You couldn't inhale smoke from them and if you held them too long by your lips, it would have broken into two. One thing, however, was that we had the actual brands printed on the boxes then and not these exotically misspelled versions (Philip Mhoriz, Marlporo, Camet, Dunjill, Zalem, L&N, Marc, and Jope). I guess intellectual ownership wasn't also that big an issue then as it is now. The confectioners are probably taking precautions against lawsuits, or are simply ensuring that kids do not graduate to the actual stuff by making the brand names confusing.
I remember the first time that I told my parents about these in grade school, explaining how I spent every peso of my first allowance. It was an interrogation of sorts:
"Cigarette candies? What are those?"
"Candies in cigarette boxes."
"Is it a tube with candy inside?"
"Not really, it's just a stick of candy. You just suck on it and chew it down when it breaks."
"You don't light it up?"
"No, but you can grind it up with a razor on a mirror and snort it through the nose with a one-peso bill."
I got these cigarette candies in a pack of eight for - count them - ten pesos, whereas they cost one peso per pack during the 80s. That's a price adjustment of a mere 25 centavos per pack over twenty years. It was a dark night when I got these from this grocery. My friend and I quickly tried them out without looking at them, finding that they don't taste like artificial fruit anymore but like your regular over-the-counter antacid - slightly minty and with the consistency of chalk. I was to discover much later when photographing them in better lighting that the candies have dubious brown spots and have somehow turned a pale shade of yellow, making me believe that perhaps these candies have actually been manufactured twenty years ago... or maybe it's just the high tar content. Needless to say, I won't be eating the rest anymore. The surgeon general should issue public warnings about these.
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The truth is that creation is one big four-dimensional jigsaw puzzle where everything fits into a certain context. Humans are humans too, you know. After all, when you meet someone with two heads and seven arms, you don't laugh. You will act as humanly as possible in that situation, which more or less means asking for a photo-op using your camera-phone before running away in revulsion as if fire ants have somehow appeared inside your underpants (but remembering to say thanks - that's important). Everything does belong (except perhaps you during grade school, thanks to your poor bowel control).
I'm not here to poke fun at genetic catastrophes. For sure they are wrong, but they were wrought by divine hands, and aren't for us to really comprehend. One other thing I cannot comprehend is how, with our feeble human minds, we still encounter man-made oddities that are in many levels just as wrong as someone with two heads and seven arms - just as wrong and just as difficult to make sense of. Man is confounding, simply put. Man is a funny little creature, a cosmological bumper sticker that is proof of God's sense of humor.
You will forgive me for my overly dramatic introduction when all I really want to do is show some more stuff that I have collected over the past few months, a bunch of man-made oddities that man himself wasn't meant to comprehend fully.
Superior Android Jehad Robot - In a possible future, religious conflict has escalated into a holy war involving giant humanoid robots. These Jehad Robots suspiciously look like Japanese mechas (Gundams, particularly). In another surprising twist, these Mohammedan super-robots are organized into a color-coordinated team of five like your standard sentai (ranger) collective. You know them, of course: there's the red leader, the bad boy black ranger, the yellow female, the green newbie and the less interesting blue ranger who is tasked to either be the gentle giant, the comic relief or the other female in the team. The Japanese involvement is all too obvious, but as to how a predominantly Buddhist country like Japan has somehow gotten involved in the conflict between Moslems and Christians is a question that only the murky future holds the answer for (I have a suspicion that they have also engineered Crusade Robots for the Vatican as war profiteers).
These four-inch plastic representations of the Jehad Robots appear to have been wholly cast in single-color plastic with uniform applications of gold and silver paint. The package itself absolves Japan of any involvement in the holy war by largely printing 'Made in China' visibly below the blister. The best piece of text on the package, however, is the one partially obscured by the green robot, which reads, 'Special mission! Once own nothing can instead, hero of the present age'. The manufacturer was also considerate enough to print a warning message, stating that the small parts could pose choking hazards for children under 3, which would have been great had small parts actually been included. Really, show me a three-year-old who can choke on a solid four-inch tall humanoid piece of plastic and I'll show you a world of possibilities (regretably, most of these possibilities involve porn, with the exception of a possible circus stint).
Events of late haven't really done anything to resolve the centuries' worth of religious intolerance but have instead set Muslim-Christian relations back by years and years more (whoever thought of electing Palpatine into the papacy?). At the rate that we are going, Muslim-Christian relations will soon get set back a couple of thousand years more, which will be a good thing since we'll find ourselves at our religions' infacies and thus with a clean slate. I shouldn't even touch upon an issue as sensitive as religious conflict, I know, but the concept of a Jehad Robot is just too weird to ignore. Whoever made the Jehad Robot probably wanted to introduce Gundam bootlegs into the muhajeedins-under-ten set (and I hope it doesn't give them ideas). Regardless, Jehad Robots are definitely so much cooler than Popemobiles (what next, Popesignals? Popearangs?).
Penegra - So maybe this one isn't too bad. You see, some Indian pharmaceutical companies are not required to pay royalties to the rightful drug manufacturers in order for them to keep their medicine affordable for the vast Indian population (1 billion plus and counting), and this one is essentially a pirated version of Viagra. I can understand the need to provide cheap medicine to the Indian people, and Penegra is indeed much cheaper than Viagra (like 80% cheaper). There are other cheap Indian brands available, although I remember only this and Suhagra. Then again, wouldn't making a number of Viagra clones that are cheaper than a cheese sandwich only cause an upswing in their population? I'll let the analysts figure out the micro and macro ramifications regarding that (Indian males will undoubtedly have their own micro and macro ramifications after downing a tablet).
The Penegra tablet is different from Viagra only in color, as the package proudly so attests ('It is now PINK' - I love how gender typing isn't that big an issue in India). The dosage also probably differs, with this being a 50mg dose. A box holds four tablets, ensuring two happy weekends for some couple in Rajasthan (who will 'get more out of life', as the tagline promises with a heart). The package is rich with images that I find very interesting. The brand name is printed under the generic name in bold capital letters. In itself, the brand already speaks volumes: Pene-gra (the 'pene' comes first before the 'gra', a syllable which will be repeatedly uttered in steady bursts). The familiar rounded diamond tablet is used as an arrowhead for the logo, making the strikeout motif look like a rather erect swimming tadpole that can easily pene-trate through bold letters and cell membranes. The lower-left corner of the box shows a happy male chicken with a knowing smile (a symbolic promise to males that they will have happy -err- roosters). The upper-right corner shows a couple. Just looking at the image can kill an erection, a situation that the pink contents can thankfully remedy in a few minutes. We see a man and woman, whom we assume are husband and wife. Suspiciously, the man is sporting this really big grin on his face that's no doubt directly proportional to the stretchability of his underpants. The woman has a look of unease on her face as if she got prodded by a dubious blunt object outside the confines of the photo, and it somehow feels that we are witnessing a case of marital rape (it doesn't help that the man looks like someone who would have been beaten up by Da King in a classic FPJ flick). Rememer: pene first before the gra.
Please don't ask me where I got these tablets. I really can't help you (I'm sorry, frend). No, they're not from my dad, and no, I don't need them yet (something with the opposite effect should help, actually). I'm not going to take them for fun either because walking around with a seeming strap-on doesn't sound like fun. Spiking someone's coffee with a tablet does sound like a lot of fun though, especially if the boss has a private coffee maker and is due for a company presentation.
Cigarette Candies - Kids love play acting and boys usually get all sorts of role playing sets to help them imagine themselves as doctors, policemen, cowboys, indians, carpenters, accountants, strip club managers, among countless other roles. Girls, on the other hand, don't really get a lot of choices, since they usually only get a cooking set (three cheers for gender roles). It really helps for the boys to have a lot of choices since their attention spans last about as long as a cat in a microwave. The girls really don't have to complain about having only a cooking set since it often comes with 42 accessories, which last longer than the boys' toys since they don't use them to hit things with. It was fun. The alpha boy goes through his busy day working various jobs as a doctor, policeman, cowboy, indian, carpenter, accountant and strip club manager, and goes home to his 'wife', 'kids' (other children who are slightly younger than the 'married couple' but who will grow up with some confidence issues), and their 'dog' (serious confidence issues). He changes into his slippers and wifebeater, puts down his hard earned play money on the table, which his 'wife' is setting ready for dinner, and takes out a pack of cigarette candies faster than he can say, "Where's my dinner, woman?"
They are two words that don't naturally go together, unless 'quit' somehow figures into the equation, but cigarette candies were quite popular some 20 years ago and were even sold openly in school canteens (at least where I went for grade school). Cigarette candies are simply two compressed sugar sticks in a box labeled like a cigarette pack. Confectioners had to come up with novel ways of selling the same cheap candies back then and cigarettes were quite novel for children who wanted to grow up to be like their chain smoking daddies. To start with, however, they didn't look like cigarettes. They were blockish sticks that were colored as they are flavored, with grape and orange flavors being the most common (there was no way for you to identify the flavor by the packaging alone).
It was indeed a less sensitive time then, otherwise the very idea of an edible play cigarette that was sold in schools would have forced parents to file protests against school administrations. In a way, however, we always knew that it was simply a candy and not some gateway confection that could have surely led us to chain smoking, especially since we knew what real cigarettes looked like. The candies didn't even have make-believe filters. You couldn't inhale smoke from them and if you held them too long by your lips, it would have broken into two. One thing, however, was that we had the actual brands printed on the boxes then and not these exotically misspelled versions (Philip Mhoriz, Marlporo, Camet, Dunjill, Zalem, L&N, Marc, and Jope). I guess intellectual ownership wasn't also that big an issue then as it is now. The confectioners are probably taking precautions against lawsuits, or are simply ensuring that kids do not graduate to the actual stuff by making the brand names confusing.
I remember the first time that I told my parents about these in grade school, explaining how I spent every peso of my first allowance. It was an interrogation of sorts:
"Cigarette candies? What are those?"
"Candies in cigarette boxes."
"Is it a tube with candy inside?"
"Not really, it's just a stick of candy. You just suck on it and chew it down when it breaks."
"You don't light it up?"
"No, but you can grind it up with a razor on a mirror and snort it through the nose with a one-peso bill."
I got these cigarette candies in a pack of eight for - count them - ten pesos, whereas they cost one peso per pack during the 80s. That's a price adjustment of a mere 25 centavos per pack over twenty years. It was a dark night when I got these from this grocery. My friend and I quickly tried them out without looking at them, finding that they don't taste like artificial fruit anymore but like your regular over-the-counter antacid - slightly minty and with the consistency of chalk. I was to discover much later when photographing them in better lighting that the candies have dubious brown spots and have somehow turned a pale shade of yellow, making me believe that perhaps these candies have actually been manufactured twenty years ago... or maybe it's just the high tar content. Needless to say, I won't be eating the rest anymore. The surgeon general should issue public warnings about these.
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Monday, October 02, 2006 A.D.
One Big Something
A true eagle knows when to put down his arrow when he sees a young tiger ready to take flight.
I'm sore and in denial. It was a good run.
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I'm sore and in denial. It was a good run.
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Sunday, September 24, 2006 A.D.
Church and National Seafarers' Day
"There will be a second collection for our seamen. Please reach deep into your pockets and give generously."
Yes, I go to church weekly.
I'm still probably going to hell though.
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Yes, I go to church weekly.
I'm still probably going to hell though.
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Saturday, July 08, 2006 A.D.
Suddenly Susan
I've heard the story so often since I was a child that I never bothered to ask my mom for details. Back when she was in college - and being a math major - she regularly found herself teaching review/remedial classes to her lowerclassmen in exchange for an exam exemption or in fulfillment of an extra academic bonus (either way, it meant that she was good with math to start with). Those classes, she said, were most often standing-room-only occasions, and she prided herself in the fact that she can analytically break down complex problems to their basic component parts, thus making it easier for her students to comprehend. More importantly, she also told me and my brother that it made her feel really good to know that she was given the opportunity to help out other people.
I never bothered finding out why her classes were so popular, except I had a hunch when she was again telling her story this afternoon. I figured that the only reason I would go to a review class was if I found the instructor attractive. It's kind of a disturbing thought, but I had to know: I asked my mom if her classes were mostly male and she told me that there were quite a number, although they mostly kept to the back rows. She also told me that she received several love letters but she never really found out who gave them. There we had it, I thought, even men from forty years ago were socially inept and had the same motivations as men today. It's not such a bad thought, really, because it meant that my mom was a looker and that she was good with numbers. My mom went on to tell me that, aside from those pesky love letters, she received a fair number of thank-you notes from those who passed. Again, it's not such a bad thought that my mom was well appreciated in college (I would have liked a little bit of that for myself). Expectedly, most of these notes came from girls, which shouldn't be that surprising since notes had always been more of a girl thing (if I ever gave you in this lifetime anything that qualifies as a note, please throw it away now). In addition to notes, my mom said, one girl named Susan even gifted her with food. In fact, this Susan turned out to be something like a rabid supporter of my mom in that she almost always attended my mom's classes, where she was always seated up front (my mom was making friends in college - again, a not-so-bad thought). She also rallied her fellow students to attend her classes, testifying about my mom's excellent teaching skills (and having been taught by her a lot, I would attest to this as well). Susan, whom I have never heard of before this afternoon, sometimes even convinced my mom to teach an impromptu class because the student-teacher assigned to her class was running late. When the actual teacher arrived, Susan told her to just let my mom teach the rest of the class. This resulted in an unpleasant misunderstanding, as could be expected, although the way my mom recounted it, she didn't see why the other student-teacher should be offended by her intrusion, but that's my mom - she's such a good person that she wouldn't see malice in anything. Hearing my mom and learning about her uncomplicated values bothered me a bit - I wouldn't call her naive, more like sheltered and simple. It was then that I suddenly understood. "Is Susan - urmm - boyish?" It turned out that she was. She's not lesbian... she's a tomboy - but of course, that was how my mom saw it. She would call it appreciation, while I would call it 'putting the moves'.
I wouldn't know anything about lesbians even if they figure a lot in the videos I view for research purposes. Of course, as we all know, lesbians didn't at all exist during the 60s - although 'tomboys' were fairly commonplace (the Church maintains that lesbians do not exist). As I understand it, these 'tomboys' all wore clothes that made them look like taxi drivers with crew cuts because it's really impossible for them to look like humanly decent females. Then again, even at the so-called height of the so-called sexual revolution, tomboys were understood to grow out of their tomboy phases and eventually have grandchildren. This was the Philippines after all.
Not wanting to break my mom's heart, I kept my observations to myself (and my brother, whose eyes lit up the same time as mine earlier). It's enough for her to know that Susan was really just someone she helped a lot with mathematics (I'm also quite sure of that anyway). It's good to know, however, that in her college years, my mom was something of a headturner who was also a consistent honor student. That she was also a lesbo-bait shouldn't matter, and it really shouldn't give me any reasons to sleep less comfortably. Really. Really, really. Anyhow, I'm of the belief that it takes more for a person to become attractive to someone from the same sex, but I can only think that because it's never happened to me before as far as I know. I would ask my dad if he had similar experiences except I'm afraid that he would enjoy telling his stories, which, frankly, I wouldn't believe anyway. Regardless, if I were to believe all the nostalgic baby-boomers I met (and they are legion), the 60s were indeed a time of fun, fun, fun. Eventually however, suffice to say, my daddy took the T-bird away.
(You don't want to know how much I wanted to use that last line. Dork.).
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I never bothered finding out why her classes were so popular, except I had a hunch when she was again telling her story this afternoon. I figured that the only reason I would go to a review class was if I found the instructor attractive. It's kind of a disturbing thought, but I had to know: I asked my mom if her classes were mostly male and she told me that there were quite a number, although they mostly kept to the back rows. She also told me that she received several love letters but she never really found out who gave them. There we had it, I thought, even men from forty years ago were socially inept and had the same motivations as men today. It's not such a bad thought, really, because it meant that my mom was a looker and that she was good with numbers. My mom went on to tell me that, aside from those pesky love letters, she received a fair number of thank-you notes from those who passed. Again, it's not such a bad thought that my mom was well appreciated in college (I would have liked a little bit of that for myself). Expectedly, most of these notes came from girls, which shouldn't be that surprising since notes had always been more of a girl thing (if I ever gave you in this lifetime anything that qualifies as a note, please throw it away now). In addition to notes, my mom said, one girl named Susan even gifted her with food. In fact, this Susan turned out to be something like a rabid supporter of my mom in that she almost always attended my mom's classes, where she was always seated up front (my mom was making friends in college - again, a not-so-bad thought). She also rallied her fellow students to attend her classes, testifying about my mom's excellent teaching skills (and having been taught by her a lot, I would attest to this as well). Susan, whom I have never heard of before this afternoon, sometimes even convinced my mom to teach an impromptu class because the student-teacher assigned to her class was running late. When the actual teacher arrived, Susan told her to just let my mom teach the rest of the class. This resulted in an unpleasant misunderstanding, as could be expected, although the way my mom recounted it, she didn't see why the other student-teacher should be offended by her intrusion, but that's my mom - she's such a good person that she wouldn't see malice in anything. Hearing my mom and learning about her uncomplicated values bothered me a bit - I wouldn't call her naive, more like sheltered and simple. It was then that I suddenly understood. "Is Susan - urmm - boyish?" It turned out that she was. She's not lesbian... she's a tomboy - but of course, that was how my mom saw it. She would call it appreciation, while I would call it 'putting the moves'.
I wouldn't know anything about lesbians even if they figure a lot in the videos I view for research purposes. Of course, as we all know, lesbians didn't at all exist during the 60s - although 'tomboys' were fairly commonplace (the Church maintains that lesbians do not exist). As I understand it, these 'tomboys' all wore clothes that made them look like taxi drivers with crew cuts because it's really impossible for them to look like humanly decent females. Then again, even at the so-called height of the so-called sexual revolution, tomboys were understood to grow out of their tomboy phases and eventually have grandchildren. This was the Philippines after all.
Not wanting to break my mom's heart, I kept my observations to myself (and my brother, whose eyes lit up the same time as mine earlier). It's enough for her to know that Susan was really just someone she helped a lot with mathematics (I'm also quite sure of that anyway). It's good to know, however, that in her college years, my mom was something of a headturner who was also a consistent honor student. That she was also a lesbo-bait shouldn't matter, and it really shouldn't give me any reasons to sleep less comfortably. Really. Really, really. Anyhow, I'm of the belief that it takes more for a person to become attractive to someone from the same sex, but I can only think that because it's never happened to me before as far as I know. I would ask my dad if he had similar experiences except I'm afraid that he would enjoy telling his stories, which, frankly, I wouldn't believe anyway. Regardless, if I were to believe all the nostalgic baby-boomers I met (and they are legion), the 60s were indeed a time of fun, fun, fun. Eventually however, suffice to say, my daddy took the T-bird away.
(You don't want to know how much I wanted to use that last line. Dork.).
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Wednesday, June 28, 2006 A.D.
How Kryptonite Works
http://www.howstuffworks.com/kryptonite.htm
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Wednesday, June 14, 2006 A.D.
Sam is Our Friend
Sam is our friend. Here are 10 things that you probably didn't know about our friend, Sam Mylbi:
- 'I am Sam', a movie about an adult with the mental capacity of a child, is really not about our friend Sam Mylbi.
- Our friend Sam Mylbi is into motocross and hockey, hobbies that have proven dangerous when one is not too careful. He is also into playing guitar and singing, hobbies that have also proven very dangerous with our friend's participation.
- As written out in the famous book by Dr. Seuss, our friend Sam Mylbi's first name, 'Sam', rhymes with 'ham', unlike his last name, 'Mylbi', which doesn't rhyme with 'ham'. Saying his entire name aloud, however, will indubitably make one sound like a ham.
- Our friend Sam Mylbi, has a brand of hotdog named after him. I wish I was joking about this.
- The Latin-derived form '-cide' (i.e. suicide, genocide, homicide, etc.) is used to imply killing. Sammylbicide is an awkward-sounding but lexically applicable word that can be used to imply the murder of our friend Sam Mylbi, an outright violation of the fifth commandment for Christians.
- The reason why we always see our friend Sam Mylbi smiling is that it only takes 13 muscles for him to smile and 50 to frown. Incidentally, seeing our friend Sam Mylbi smile results in a certain kind of expression that requires 72 muscles to tense up (depending on what one is doing).
- Our friend Sam Mylbi's complete given name is Samuel. Incidentally, 1 Sam and 2 Sam are abbreviations of books in the Old Testament, 1 Samuel and 2 Samuel respectively. Our friend doesn't use numbers to precede his name because God knows there is only one Sam Mylbi on His good earth.
- Various products that our friend Sam Mylbi has endorsed include toothpaste, hamburgers, antacids, vitamins, apparel, bags, cellular networks, and hotdogs. Various products that our friend hasn't endorsed include laxatives, fungal cream, lipstick, feminine wash and hemorrhoid ointment.
- Our friend Sam Mylbi uses only 10% of his brain regularly - unless when he's smiling, in which case he uses up to 99.8%. He really works hard for that perfect smile and it really taxes his central nervous system - the reason why we never see him moving at all when he's smiling.
- 'Slam my bi' is an anagram for our friend's name, 'Sam Mylbi'. Another would be 'as my limb', which doesn't make much sense, but was reportedly given as an answer by a polio victim when asked about the prospects of our friend's career.
- In an alternate universe populated by carnivorous animists with low morale, our friend Sam Mylbi is revered as a cast member of a TV show with 24-hour surveillance and has even recorded an album.
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- 'I am Sam', a movie about an adult with the mental capacity of a child, is really not about our friend Sam Mylbi.
- Our friend Sam Mylbi is into motocross and hockey, hobbies that have proven dangerous when one is not too careful. He is also into playing guitar and singing, hobbies that have also proven very dangerous with our friend's participation.
- As written out in the famous book by Dr. Seuss, our friend Sam Mylbi's first name, 'Sam', rhymes with 'ham', unlike his last name, 'Mylbi', which doesn't rhyme with 'ham'. Saying his entire name aloud, however, will indubitably make one sound like a ham.
- Our friend Sam Mylbi, has a brand of hotdog named after him. I wish I was joking about this.
- The Latin-derived form '-cide' (i.e. suicide, genocide, homicide, etc.) is used to imply killing. Sammylbicide is an awkward-sounding but lexically applicable word that can be used to imply the murder of our friend Sam Mylbi, an outright violation of the fifth commandment for Christians.
- The reason why we always see our friend Sam Mylbi smiling is that it only takes 13 muscles for him to smile and 50 to frown. Incidentally, seeing our friend Sam Mylbi smile results in a certain kind of expression that requires 72 muscles to tense up (depending on what one is doing).
- Our friend Sam Mylbi's complete given name is Samuel. Incidentally, 1 Sam and 2 Sam are abbreviations of books in the Old Testament, 1 Samuel and 2 Samuel respectively. Our friend doesn't use numbers to precede his name because God knows there is only one Sam Mylbi on His good earth.
- Various products that our friend Sam Mylbi has endorsed include toothpaste, hamburgers, antacids, vitamins, apparel, bags, cellular networks, and hotdogs. Various products that our friend hasn't endorsed include laxatives, fungal cream, lipstick, feminine wash and hemorrhoid ointment.
- Our friend Sam Mylbi uses only 10% of his brain regularly - unless when he's smiling, in which case he uses up to 99.8%. He really works hard for that perfect smile and it really taxes his central nervous system - the reason why we never see him moving at all when he's smiling.
- 'Slam my bi' is an anagram for our friend's name, 'Sam Mylbi'. Another would be 'as my limb', which doesn't make much sense, but was reportedly given as an answer by a polio victim when asked about the prospects of our friend's career.
- In an alternate universe populated by carnivorous animists with low morale, our friend Sam Mylbi is revered as a cast member of a TV show with 24-hour surveillance and has even recorded an album.
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Friday, June 02, 2006 A.D.
Girls with Low Self-Esteem
To My Dear Parents,
I am bothered. Why have you never made efforts to set me up with your friends' daughters when I recently found out that a lot of them are my age and look really hot?
Your son,
Ronan
P.S.) Please leave a comment.
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I am bothered. Why have you never made efforts to set me up with your friends' daughters when I recently found out that a lot of them are my age and look really hot?
Your son,
Ronan
P.S.) Please leave a comment.
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Saturday, April 29, 2006 A.D.
Historical Figure
It's true - and I should be embarrassed to admit it - the only place I get to see outside of home and work these days is the gym (I call it that but it makes me feel more dignified to call it a 'health club' when I think of the monthly membership fees).
I should feel sorry for myself but the gym isn't so bad, really... there's the occasional celebrity sighting, the occasional girl to observe through one's trusty peripheral vision (albeit sometimes deceitful), the occasional males who have the dubious ability to gracefully prance about like spring lambs during group exercise... and don't even get me started on the locker room (there's a lot of material there for a another update). I like to observe people and I just say that because I'm socially inept - looking at people is just something I've grown to like because it's really all I can do sometimes.
There weren't any celebrities at the gym - ehh health club - this morning, nor were there any interesting members of the fair sex, and thankfully, no expertly trained male belly dancers (fairy sex?). There was this one person who caught my undue attention though, and he was very manly, mainly because he sported very manly facial hair. It wasn't merely a 70s porn 'stache because I think it almost qualified as a handlebar, with curled tips and everything. His hair was thinning, not unusual for someone who's easily past the mid-thirties, and he wore circular wire-rimmed glasses. Watching him do his shoulder presses, I started hearing the national anthem inside my head - God bless the Philippine islands... I was looking at a national hero.
It made me painfully insecure to look at his macho 'stache. The few attempts I tried growing a mustache, you see, only resulted in spotty growths of uneven bristles that made it almost seem that I had a rare skin disease on my snout (even worse, it made it appear that I had a snout). I found out that the longest I could go without shaving was three days... not shaving beyond that was already risking a trip to the leprosarium.
Moustaches do make men look more manly (women too, I discovered). However, it also make them look funny (women too, I discovered). One is often tempted to laugh at mustachioed men except one rarely dares doing so in fear of the mustache's manly emanations. I found myself in that situation earlier - to laugh or not to laugh. I thought about it very hard and noted that: 1.) he was lifting heavier dumbbells than those I usually did, 2.) he was gritting his teeth and was sporting a visible vein in his forehead from overly concentrating on his reps, and 3.) God bless the Philippine islands, he really looked like a national hero. Laughing at him would have amounted to high treason and could have seen me deported to a Chinese port.
That encounter made me feel proud to be a Filipino citizen, albeit one from the lower Chinese classes. It made me think of how far we have gotten as a people, and it also made me think that under their overcoats, our forefathers must really have well developed deltoids. Truly, not only was it enough for them travel the world and be educated in letters, arts, and sciences, they also had to culturally engage themselves in the fine art of bodybuilding, all to instill pride in our people and to help rid us of unwelcome Spanish involvements (I hear they're evil).
I was tempted to introduce myself to the guy because he probably saw me observing him after all that time, except I didn't know what to say. He was probably just a stage actor who takes part in historical reenactments or a model who poses for Bangko Sentral bank notes. He was also probably used to getting stared at, because who wouldn't, after all, get consistently stared at when wearing a handlebar moustache in this age (Freddie Mercury doesn't count because: 1.) he's a rock star, and 2.) he's dead). I left the area after my workout and hit the showers, thankful for the encounter. It was just like a field trip to Fort Santiago only with dreadful techno music and a juice bar. History is really everywhere. Like they say, the Filipino is worth developing firm pectorals for.
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I should feel sorry for myself but the gym isn't so bad, really... there's the occasional celebrity sighting, the occasional girl to observe through one's trusty peripheral vision (albeit sometimes deceitful), the occasional males who have the dubious ability to gracefully prance about like spring lambs during group exercise... and don't even get me started on the locker room (there's a lot of material there for a another update). I like to observe people and I just say that because I'm socially inept - looking at people is just something I've grown to like because it's really all I can do sometimes.
There weren't any celebrities at the gym - ehh health club - this morning, nor were there any interesting members of the fair sex, and thankfully, no expertly trained male belly dancers (fairy sex?). There was this one person who caught my undue attention though, and he was very manly, mainly because he sported very manly facial hair. It wasn't merely a 70s porn 'stache because I think it almost qualified as a handlebar, with curled tips and everything. His hair was thinning, not unusual for someone who's easily past the mid-thirties, and he wore circular wire-rimmed glasses. Watching him do his shoulder presses, I started hearing the national anthem inside my head - God bless the Philippine islands... I was looking at a national hero.
It made me painfully insecure to look at his macho 'stache. The few attempts I tried growing a mustache, you see, only resulted in spotty growths of uneven bristles that made it almost seem that I had a rare skin disease on my snout (even worse, it made it appear that I had a snout). I found out that the longest I could go without shaving was three days... not shaving beyond that was already risking a trip to the leprosarium.
Moustaches do make men look more manly (women too, I discovered). However, it also make them look funny (women too, I discovered). One is often tempted to laugh at mustachioed men except one rarely dares doing so in fear of the mustache's manly emanations. I found myself in that situation earlier - to laugh or not to laugh. I thought about it very hard and noted that: 1.) he was lifting heavier dumbbells than those I usually did, 2.) he was gritting his teeth and was sporting a visible vein in his forehead from overly concentrating on his reps, and 3.) God bless the Philippine islands, he really looked like a national hero. Laughing at him would have amounted to high treason and could have seen me deported to a Chinese port.
That encounter made me feel proud to be a Filipino citizen, albeit one from the lower Chinese classes. It made me think of how far we have gotten as a people, and it also made me think that under their overcoats, our forefathers must really have well developed deltoids. Truly, not only was it enough for them travel the world and be educated in letters, arts, and sciences, they also had to culturally engage themselves in the fine art of bodybuilding, all to instill pride in our people and to help rid us of unwelcome Spanish involvements (I hear they're evil).
I was tempted to introduce myself to the guy because he probably saw me observing him after all that time, except I didn't know what to say. He was probably just a stage actor who takes part in historical reenactments or a model who poses for Bangko Sentral bank notes. He was also probably used to getting stared at, because who wouldn't, after all, get consistently stared at when wearing a handlebar moustache in this age (Freddie Mercury doesn't count because: 1.) he's a rock star, and 2.) he's dead). I left the area after my workout and hit the showers, thankful for the encounter. It was just like a field trip to Fort Santiago only with dreadful techno music and a juice bar. History is really everywhere. Like they say, the Filipino is worth developing firm pectorals for.
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Sunday, April 23, 2006 A.D.
Nasty Coinage
It is a sad fact of life that some regrettable occurrences can appear funny to people, only that it has to happen to some other poor character and not to oneself (on the top of my head, I can think of animal attacks, genital mutilation, and inelastic collisions that involve at least one living creature). It is with this knowledge that I will attempt to narrate exactly what happened to me this morning. Those who hate me can take joy in this account, although be forewarned that it doesn't involve my physical person (it's nothing as drastic as an animal attack, genital mutilation or an inelastic collision that I partook in, unfortunately for you). I hope you all find this funny, because I don't.
I volunteered to drive my family to church this morning using my car since it was readily blocking the driveway (since using the usual family van would require me to rearrange the vehicles, a task that I was too lazy to do, honestly). The church was about fifteen minutes away, and arriving there earlier than usual, we had the privilege of choosing a good parking space. Given the unforgiving heat, we eventually settled for a space with ample shade, right next to the entrance of the church multi-purpose hall. One of the purposes that the multi-purpose hall serves is that of becoming a free weekend clinic, apparently, as I found out earlier. The moment that I shut down the engine, a little boy with blond highlights who was not older than four ran up to the front bumper and found something to do that somewhat qualified as playing (something like walking his fingers along the bumper lines, I think). He was obviously enjoying himself and his mother was also amused at whatever he was doing.
I didn't pay any attention to any of that. He was a harmless little kid who wasn't older than four anyway, never mind that he had blond highlights (pray tell, why would a parent want to apply blond highlights to a toddler in the first place?). Anyhow, the kid's mother was beside him and the church guard was seated not five feet away - what could possibly go wrong with that? Just to keep things safe though, I hid my car's resident superheroes (an 18" Spider-man and a Hulk squeeze toy) under the car seat, the better to keep those pesky children away from my windows.
I only discovered the tragic consequences of being a good Catholic who went to church on Sundays when I got home. I should have been tipped off an hour earlier when I went out the church to take a trip to the garbage can and a group of kids, more or less as old as the blond imp who took a fixation with my bumper, approached me to ask for money (something they weren't allowed to do there). These were streetchildren, I realized, and they all have pockets jingling with their weekend stash. They were there for the free clinic, I suppose, but it would have been a waste of opportunity for them not to put their time to more productive use while they were waiting for their numbers to be called, so they begged. The clueless guard still sat where he was sitting since I parked the car, not knowing that these brats were already begging for change under his nose.
Here's the picture: on one side we had a streetkid armed with an active but undereducated imagination and coins that served as round metallic implements, while on the other side, we had my car with its front end that had a virginal titanium paint finish. I could tell you what happened but I'm still too flabbergasted by the aftermath of my chuch-going naivete. I just had to remind myself that there are worse things than a car hood repeatedly scratched from end to end (such as animal attacks, genital mutilation, or inelastic collisions involving at least one living creature), and besides, I should be thankful that the little blond imp was illiterate, otherwise I would have found an unwitting name for my car (like Boy Blondie QC).
I instantly thought about insurance, or specifically how to write this off as an accident, except no idiot would possibly buy whatever story I come up with ("Cats with metal claws fornicated on my hood..."). With a dim insurance case, I just thought of revenge except that the clinic had closed before we left church, so it was of no use to go back. I just entertained pleasurable revenge thoughts in my depraved mind. I figured that the blond imp's mom and the church guard were as much at fault as the imp was for their indifference, but nothing could possibly satisfy my desire for revenge than to physically assault that four-year old mite. I would have gladly made a tabloid situation by mapping out the physical trajectory of a blond body at rest that was made to collide with a foot in motion.
Then I thought - one shouldn't do that in church premises. One should reach inside for the heart and not outside for the flesh. The best thing to do, I thought, would be to talk to him like a knowledgeable person and explain the situation to him. To cap the conversation, I would take the boy to the dirty ice cream vendor, ask him his favorite flavor and buy a cone of ice cream... then I would stick the whole thing into his eye and smear ice cream from his eye onto his blond hair. He would be too surprised to cry at that moment just yet, making it the perfect opportunity for me to hold his mouth open while I push the empty cone down his gullet. Making sure that his eyes are wide open from shock, I would then look at him straight and tell him that he won't ever forget me in his entire lifetime (emotional scars are the best). With further luck, he'd probably develop a lifelong phobia for ice cream and be forced to hide under the bed whenever he hears an ice cream bell. It's too harsh, I know, but it's a fantasy I'm nurturing at the moment. I sometimes still get murderous urges when I see artificially blond children, but they're a rarity even in the metro, thankfully.
So I'm back to thinking about an insurance scam, but this doesn't mean that I didn't learn my lesson from this (it's not 'Don't go to church on Sundays,' just so you know). I learned that to avoid receiving that kind of 'harmless' car defacement I would just have to encourage it by tying a whiteboard marker to my front grill - at least then it would save me paint-over fees and the price of an ice cream cone.
God bless the little children.
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I volunteered to drive my family to church this morning using my car since it was readily blocking the driveway (since using the usual family van would require me to rearrange the vehicles, a task that I was too lazy to do, honestly). The church was about fifteen minutes away, and arriving there earlier than usual, we had the privilege of choosing a good parking space. Given the unforgiving heat, we eventually settled for a space with ample shade, right next to the entrance of the church multi-purpose hall. One of the purposes that the multi-purpose hall serves is that of becoming a free weekend clinic, apparently, as I found out earlier. The moment that I shut down the engine, a little boy with blond highlights who was not older than four ran up to the front bumper and found something to do that somewhat qualified as playing (something like walking his fingers along the bumper lines, I think). He was obviously enjoying himself and his mother was also amused at whatever he was doing.
I didn't pay any attention to any of that. He was a harmless little kid who wasn't older than four anyway, never mind that he had blond highlights (pray tell, why would a parent want to apply blond highlights to a toddler in the first place?). Anyhow, the kid's mother was beside him and the church guard was seated not five feet away - what could possibly go wrong with that? Just to keep things safe though, I hid my car's resident superheroes (an 18" Spider-man and a Hulk squeeze toy) under the car seat, the better to keep those pesky children away from my windows.
I only discovered the tragic consequences of being a good Catholic who went to church on Sundays when I got home. I should have been tipped off an hour earlier when I went out the church to take a trip to the garbage can and a group of kids, more or less as old as the blond imp who took a fixation with my bumper, approached me to ask for money (something they weren't allowed to do there). These were streetchildren, I realized, and they all have pockets jingling with their weekend stash. They were there for the free clinic, I suppose, but it would have been a waste of opportunity for them not to put their time to more productive use while they were waiting for their numbers to be called, so they begged. The clueless guard still sat where he was sitting since I parked the car, not knowing that these brats were already begging for change under his nose.
Here's the picture: on one side we had a streetkid armed with an active but undereducated imagination and coins that served as round metallic implements, while on the other side, we had my car with its front end that had a virginal titanium paint finish. I could tell you what happened but I'm still too flabbergasted by the aftermath of my chuch-going naivete. I just had to remind myself that there are worse things than a car hood repeatedly scratched from end to end (such as animal attacks, genital mutilation, or inelastic collisions involving at least one living creature), and besides, I should be thankful that the little blond imp was illiterate, otherwise I would have found an unwitting name for my car (like Boy Blondie QC).
I instantly thought about insurance, or specifically how to write this off as an accident, except no idiot would possibly buy whatever story I come up with ("Cats with metal claws fornicated on my hood..."). With a dim insurance case, I just thought of revenge except that the clinic had closed before we left church, so it was of no use to go back. I just entertained pleasurable revenge thoughts in my depraved mind. I figured that the blond imp's mom and the church guard were as much at fault as the imp was for their indifference, but nothing could possibly satisfy my desire for revenge than to physically assault that four-year old mite. I would have gladly made a tabloid situation by mapping out the physical trajectory of a blond body at rest that was made to collide with a foot in motion.
Then I thought - one shouldn't do that in church premises. One should reach inside for the heart and not outside for the flesh. The best thing to do, I thought, would be to talk to him like a knowledgeable person and explain the situation to him. To cap the conversation, I would take the boy to the dirty ice cream vendor, ask him his favorite flavor and buy a cone of ice cream... then I would stick the whole thing into his eye and smear ice cream from his eye onto his blond hair. He would be too surprised to cry at that moment just yet, making it the perfect opportunity for me to hold his mouth open while I push the empty cone down his gullet. Making sure that his eyes are wide open from shock, I would then look at him straight and tell him that he won't ever forget me in his entire lifetime (emotional scars are the best). With further luck, he'd probably develop a lifelong phobia for ice cream and be forced to hide under the bed whenever he hears an ice cream bell. It's too harsh, I know, but it's a fantasy I'm nurturing at the moment. I sometimes still get murderous urges when I see artificially blond children, but they're a rarity even in the metro, thankfully.
So I'm back to thinking about an insurance scam, but this doesn't mean that I didn't learn my lesson from this (it's not 'Don't go to church on Sundays,' just so you know). I learned that to avoid receiving that kind of 'harmless' car defacement I would just have to encourage it by tying a whiteboard marker to my front grill - at least then it would save me paint-over fees and the price of an ice cream cone.
God bless the little children.
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Thursday, April 06, 2006 A.D.
Project Lazarus
I didn't check into a house with 24-hour surveillance for the first quarter of this year, but I do have reasons for (seemingly) disappearing. The dark ages will get represented though (if not documented), but I'll need a bit of time to flesh them out as all I currently have are dates with outlines/notes from the past three months. Those months were nothing special, and it's almost a shame to admit that they were - blissfully or badly - boring at times. It's strange though how I hate to admit that they have been the most eventful ones in my recent memory.
Please check back soon for retro updates. Hopefully, up-to-date updates will soon actually follow.
Thanks for visiting.
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Please check back soon for retro updates. Hopefully, up-to-date updates will soon actually follow.
Thanks for visiting.
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Saturday, January 28, 2006 A.D.
75
My life is peeling like a blister and suddenly I feel as if I just lost a good chunk of fingerprint. I realize that I won't get to hear your voice as much anymore. It's difficult to put words down, but after everything, all I can properly say are I'm sorry, thanks for everything, and I'll miss you.
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Thursday, January 12, 2006 A.D.
Happy Birthday Kai
I'll always be here for you. I'll also always be there for you. Please don't confuse my whereabouts with my good intentions.
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Friday, January 06, 2006 A.D.
Things to Do in 2006 (5 of 5)
25. Clean Up My Room - This is, of course, easier said than done. I risk being buried under a pile of plastic and paper daily. There have been previous attempts to organize my stuff though, make no mistake, but those efforts only kept relocating the clutter I hoarded in the last decade to another part of the room (like playing with a four-dimensional Rubik's cube). It's a daunting venture, to say the least, but being a logical person, I plan to begin with the simplest and most logical solution: move out of my room, into the living room, and forget about the clutter.
26. Start a Cult - Not to be confused with #23 because this shall be exclusively a business venture. The first step shall be to register a business name, and 'Church of Metrology' shall suit my purposes. For this venture, I shall be the Presidential High Priest, and I shall have a court/board of five half Filipina-half foreigner Host/Singer/Model/Actress/VJ/Socialite/Philanthropists who shall serve as Priestesses for each of the following relevant dioceses: Culture, Fashion, Grooming, Food and Wine, and Interior Design. My gospel shall be of the theme that life is a continual series of sacred makeovers that shall ultimately lead believers to actualization. I shall enlist a majority of artistas to be among my beloved flock, of course, to save on marketing expenses. These artistas shall serve as prophets, and they shall all be aptly instructed to know psychiatry.
27. Shave Along the Grain - And not against. I'm guilty of doing the latter, I admit. Shaving along the grain can actually make stubble less prickly, and can help reduce unwanted instances of ingrown hair, only that it seems to take more time to do that than to shave against the grain. It's somehow easier to shave off my facial hair in consistent upward strokes than downward, and I blame my follicles for that since they grow hair toward that overrated force of nature known as gravity. If my attempts at proper shaving do not succeed, I'll just have to convince my follicles to grow hair upward by sleeping with a light source on my headboard (it works for grass).
28. Take More Lactobacillic Substances - My aunt lovingly produces lactobacillic culture in her kitchen using fresh milk and a certain type of Tibetan fungus (seriously). The resulting substance, in both cream and liquid (whey) forms, supposedly has therapeutic effects on humans who are willing to ingest (or apply) the curious smelling emulsion. The curious smell is, sadly, nothing one should be curious about because it isn't too different from sour milk that has congealed under someone's toenails. The enzymes, however, supposedly aid in digestion and promote healthy cellular growth. People that my family know have actually been reacting positively to the lacto-fungal concoction, including cancer patients. There are even reports that it can resurrect inactive hair follicles(!). As someone merely concerned for the welfare of males affected by male pattern baldness, I will employ scientific methods by volunteering my perfectly healthy follicles to prove or refute the claims.
29. Visit My Dentist - The last time I visited my dentist was June of 2003, and before that, March 2002. Two of my molar fillings have already caved in and I fear the worst. The truth is that I am a sensitive person that if I were a member of a boyband, I would be the one singing in castrated falsetto. My dental nerve endings are hopelessly located too close to my teeth roots that every time my teeth are prodded with sharp metal implements I feel the urge to pee in my pants. My dentist, however, is a gracious and motherly professional who thankfully always knows when to apply gracious and motherly anaesthesia. She's a saint, only with a high-pitched drill.
30. Stop Procrastinating - Maybe next year.
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26. Start a Cult - Not to be confused with #23 because this shall be exclusively a business venture. The first step shall be to register a business name, and 'Church of Metrology' shall suit my purposes. For this venture, I shall be the Presidential High Priest, and I shall have a court/board of five half Filipina-half foreigner Host/Singer/Model/Actress/VJ/Socialite/Philanthropists who shall serve as Priestesses for each of the following relevant dioceses: Culture, Fashion, Grooming, Food and Wine, and Interior Design. My gospel shall be of the theme that life is a continual series of sacred makeovers that shall ultimately lead believers to actualization. I shall enlist a majority of artistas to be among my beloved flock, of course, to save on marketing expenses. These artistas shall serve as prophets, and they shall all be aptly instructed to know psychiatry.
27. Shave Along the Grain - And not against. I'm guilty of doing the latter, I admit. Shaving along the grain can actually make stubble less prickly, and can help reduce unwanted instances of ingrown hair, only that it seems to take more time to do that than to shave against the grain. It's somehow easier to shave off my facial hair in consistent upward strokes than downward, and I blame my follicles for that since they grow hair toward that overrated force of nature known as gravity. If my attempts at proper shaving do not succeed, I'll just have to convince my follicles to grow hair upward by sleeping with a light source on my headboard (it works for grass).
28. Take More Lactobacillic Substances - My aunt lovingly produces lactobacillic culture in her kitchen using fresh milk and a certain type of Tibetan fungus (seriously). The resulting substance, in both cream and liquid (whey) forms, supposedly has therapeutic effects on humans who are willing to ingest (or apply) the curious smelling emulsion. The curious smell is, sadly, nothing one should be curious about because it isn't too different from sour milk that has congealed under someone's toenails. The enzymes, however, supposedly aid in digestion and promote healthy cellular growth. People that my family know have actually been reacting positively to the lacto-fungal concoction, including cancer patients. There are even reports that it can resurrect inactive hair follicles(!). As someone merely concerned for the welfare of males affected by male pattern baldness, I will employ scientific methods by volunteering my perfectly healthy follicles to prove or refute the claims.
29. Visit My Dentist - The last time I visited my dentist was June of 2003, and before that, March 2002. Two of my molar fillings have already caved in and I fear the worst. The truth is that I am a sensitive person that if I were a member of a boyband, I would be the one singing in castrated falsetto. My dental nerve endings are hopelessly located too close to my teeth roots that every time my teeth are prodded with sharp metal implements I feel the urge to pee in my pants. My dentist, however, is a gracious and motherly professional who thankfully always knows when to apply gracious and motherly anaesthesia. She's a saint, only with a high-pitched drill.
30. Stop Procrastinating - Maybe next year.
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Thursday, January 05, 2006 A.D.
Things to Do in 2006 (4 of 5)
19. Take Valerian Root - Valerian root is a natural sleep enhancing supplement. It has no addictive or habit-forming effects, unlike tranquilizers, because it doesn't induce sleep so much as enable your system to produce more sleep hormones. It's usually taken in capsule form. I find it effective, and I see no reason to doubt its effectiveness by its smell alone because it stinks like a mountain goat's rectum. I don't exactly know how a mountain goat's rectum is supposed to smell like, especially not through personal experience, but if I were to actually sniff a mountain goat's rectum, I would expect it to smell like valerian root. On a related note, there isn't evidence showing that smelling a mountain goat's rectum can actually enhance sleep, but anybody is welcome to try in the interest of science.
20. Write a Song - I can't write a song if my life depended on it. I can try though, but I can only really play the bass (not exactly the most melodic of instruments). I have picked up the standard six-string late last year in hopes of learning it. With a bit of basic chord theory, I can properly string together simple chordal arrangements but I still can't create melodies (let alone lyrics). Still, I am determined to write something within the year, never mind if I expect it to suck worse than a breast pump. I'll write a song and it will be in a language you will understand.
21. Get Bitten by a Radioactive Animal - This will be a bit difficult. Step one will require for me to actually find an animal that can bite. It's really only a choice between mosquitoes and stray dogs, since I only have ready access to those two animals. Step two will involve procuring radioactive elements, for which I expect to be breaking a few local and international laws. Assuming that I do find an isotope, I risk a slow and painful death via radiation poisoning or worse - sterility. Thirdly, I have to make the animal radioactive, which I assume only requires exposing the mosquito or dog to the isotope until it starts turning greenish. Lastly, I'll have to slather maple syrup on the body part to be bitten, which is the easiest step of all, since I do regularly slather maple syrup on my body anyway as a hobby. Next step: pick a superhero name.
22. Honor My Dead - My three grandparents are pretty much neighbors, and the cemetery, on a good day, is only fifteen minutes away. It should be the easiest thing in the world to do, given the logistical conveniences. I will schedule regular visits within the year just so I can avoid the mad rush come November. I wouldn't want to end up in the afterlife and be met with a guilt trip.
23. Find Religion - Despite claims to such, I do not worship the devil. Really. In truth, I have been culturally exposed to a variety of religions although I like to think that I'm predominantly Catholic (I'm probably a non-practicing atheist, come to think of it). I get inspired by rock stars and the like who live lives of excess only to discover religion in the end, and as a result, find peace and 'real' happiness. That's how I would like to discover religion, I think. Step 1: sex. Step 2: drugs. Step 3: rock n' roll. Step 4: God.
24. Learn to Write with My Right Hand - In this way, I can assume right-handedness in a public place and, while writing the first few letters with my right hand, conveniently decide to stop mid-sentence and announce to everyone within earshot that I will start writing with my left hand instead because my right hand already feels tired from figuring out a solution to world hunger and/or an advanced particle physics problem the whole day. "Are you ambidextrous?" "Why? Aren't you?" Ambidexterity: it makes even the hopelessly drunk and clueless regular Einsteins.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
20. Write a Song - I can't write a song if my life depended on it. I can try though, but I can only really play the bass (not exactly the most melodic of instruments). I have picked up the standard six-string late last year in hopes of learning it. With a bit of basic chord theory, I can properly string together simple chordal arrangements but I still can't create melodies (let alone lyrics). Still, I am determined to write something within the year, never mind if I expect it to suck worse than a breast pump. I'll write a song and it will be in a language you will understand.
21. Get Bitten by a Radioactive Animal - This will be a bit difficult. Step one will require for me to actually find an animal that can bite. It's really only a choice between mosquitoes and stray dogs, since I only have ready access to those two animals. Step two will involve procuring radioactive elements, for which I expect to be breaking a few local and international laws. Assuming that I do find an isotope, I risk a slow and painful death via radiation poisoning or worse - sterility. Thirdly, I have to make the animal radioactive, which I assume only requires exposing the mosquito or dog to the isotope until it starts turning greenish. Lastly, I'll have to slather maple syrup on the body part to be bitten, which is the easiest step of all, since I do regularly slather maple syrup on my body anyway as a hobby. Next step: pick a superhero name.
22. Honor My Dead - My three grandparents are pretty much neighbors, and the cemetery, on a good day, is only fifteen minutes away. It should be the easiest thing in the world to do, given the logistical conveniences. I will schedule regular visits within the year just so I can avoid the mad rush come November. I wouldn't want to end up in the afterlife and be met with a guilt trip.
23. Find Religion - Despite claims to such, I do not worship the devil. Really. In truth, I have been culturally exposed to a variety of religions although I like to think that I'm predominantly Catholic (I'm probably a non-practicing atheist, come to think of it). I get inspired by rock stars and the like who live lives of excess only to discover religion in the end, and as a result, find peace and 'real' happiness. That's how I would like to discover religion, I think. Step 1: sex. Step 2: drugs. Step 3: rock n' roll. Step 4: God.
24. Learn to Write with My Right Hand - In this way, I can assume right-handedness in a public place and, while writing the first few letters with my right hand, conveniently decide to stop mid-sentence and announce to everyone within earshot that I will start writing with my left hand instead because my right hand already feels tired from figuring out a solution to world hunger and/or an advanced particle physics problem the whole day. "Are you ambidextrous?" "Why? Aren't you?" Ambidexterity: it makes even the hopelessly drunk and clueless regular Einsteins.
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