7 Most Misused Words

Originally posted on Facebook, but I had to take it down after a barrage of private messages from friends who were certain it would ruin my reputation forever. What? But it also made me realize that there really are things you can't post on Facebook. You have to hide your true thoughts behind some cryptic status or someone else's published thoughts because your friends will ALWAYS feel you're talking about them.

Here goes... and P.S., I was just really playing around with the Scientific American article and not reaching for any original earth-shaking groundbreaking epiphany.

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In science (according to the Scientific American) and in gay pageants, or wherever these words are used. Let’s do gay, for now, and for the purposes of this piece let's freely interchange "gay" and "homosexual."

Hypothesis. A proposed explanation that can actually be tested. Rumors cannot be hypotheses because, for heaven’s sake, don’t attempt to test whether someone is gay by asking them to look at the soles of their shoes. Don’t ask them to go to bed with you (if you’re of the same gender) either because, if the request is denied, people will think the hypothesis is proven on you.

Theory. A theory is an explanation of some aspect of the natural world that has been substantiated by repeated experiments or testing. It’s not just an idea that lives in someone's head. So before you can prove someone is gay, you will need repeated (probably many times) confirmation. Preferably personal confirmation for more reliability.

Model. A model is a representation of something. Male models are not representations (or representatives) of the gay community, however much we would like to wish they were.

A skeptic will always entertain the notion that someone in stilettos (to better accentuate a 27-inch waistline) might not be gay, even when he is a perennial winner of beauty contests. A skeptic will also be open to Manny Pacquiao being gay. A skeptic could also get punched in the face for skepticizing too much.

Nature vs. Nurture. Are people born gay? Or are they made so by extremely dominant mother figures? So let’s not start talking about the Gutierrez twins. Let’s not even talk about genes. Because if Ninoy and Cory Aquino were alive (I'm not talking about Noynoy or gayness here) they will definitely take neither side. But epigenesis? Yes! Blame it on bacteria and the things you ate or sniffed.

Significant. Scientists are still warring about this. Does it mean statistically significant, or does it mean important? It doesn’t really matter to gays and other ordinarily mortals. Unless, of course, the word that follows “significant” is “other.” Gays do have a tendency of racking up statistics on this. And of course, they’re very important. Or important until gay marriage is legalized. At which point everyone realizes people actually grow old.

Natural. You tell me. What is intrinsic to and inseparable from being gay? The sex? The lifestyle? The fashion? Appreciation for and aspirations to sing like Regine Velasquez?

And why all this confusion? They’re blaming it on Bad Education. Not the movie starring Gael García Bernal (the cute, the sexy, and other such adjectives). I tend to agree, but only half-heartedly. Because countless many rigorously educated people misuse these words on gay people, including many rigorously educated gay people.

They’re also saying that the human brain hasn’t evolved enough. So slow, this evolution. We know, right? The result is that people make mental shortcuts and tend to make binary distinctions. So, if evolution is too slow, let’s speed it up with revolution and pretty soon bisexual came along and binary was relegated to distant memory, because it was soon followed by other ____sexuals. The metro. The trans. The poly and pan. Hetero and homo can't begin to describe what we have become.

Pump Up the Quiet!

Today I felt like I was back in Grade School and locked up in the library because I was making too much noise in class. Then as now, it’s something that gives me extreme pleasure.

I was facilitating a training session on an innocent topic, Project and Process Quality Improvement, in one of those semi-aging Ayala high-rises with a mostly-female class of finance people. So we should all be bored and yawning, yes? No! 

First, they don’t make girls like they used to. The girls in my class were in their late 20s – early 30s and were gayspeaking with varying degrees of competence. The funny thing is, they’ve now taken ownership of the lingo so much that they don’t even sound gay. Just girls using colourful idiom. Amazing. Natural lang, ganun, and girl walang ka-effort effort. Wet na wet! But that’s not the reason why we were “locked up in the library.”

Blame it on Pinoy Henyo. Whoever invented this game should be given the National Artist Award. And it’s not like I gave them difficult words to guess. The theme was Christmas. The words were puto bumbong, simbang gabi, parol… Easy no-brainers? Eh bakit kung makatili ganun na lang? Pandemonium! M&M’s lang naman ang premyo!

We were in a row of training rooms and we must have made so much noise because all of them (all talaga!) sent representatives to our room to ask us (1) to please tone it down, (2) to be “not so loud” please, (3) if anyone was hurt, or just to tell us that (4) “elevator pa lang dinig na kayo. May sunog?”

I love this class!

Skyfault

I was there, standing in line for a ticket to Skyfall when I changed my mind and ate pizza instead. Which is just as well because I’d already made up my mind about the title of the post, should the movie merit one. Skyfault. What if I totally enjoyed it? But that wasn’t the reason I turned my back. 

Between pizza and Daniel Craig, the one that I had the more realistic chance of actually eating prevailed.

Asus! 1.0

Antanga-tanga pala nating lahat, and we were bred to be so.

At about this time last year I had to take my trusty Dell XPS M1330 to a shop in faraway QC to have the motherboard replaced. In other words and to skip the brain-freezing techieness, it died. I vowed that I’d get myself a new one within the year but it never happened because shortly thereafter this wonderful thing called Ultrabooks happened. And because I’m cautious about gadgets and would rather be a late adopter than stuck with a clunker I opted to wait until the 2nd and 3rd incarnations before I got myself one.

So the new ones are here, and they’re more wonderful and I got one.

I’ve been staunchly anti-Apple for many years now not because they’re inferior machines or I couldn’t afford them but because they’ve become fashion accessories and I didn’t want to belong to that group of people who used these powerful devices for frivolous activities in public places. Now that this group has migrated to mobile devices, I like Macs already. But I like the new Windows devices better.

The manufacturers finally understand what Apple had known all along. Make the products scarce.

Don’t skimp on the specs, load them up with the best stuff, design them to the point of distraction, and drive prices up to or way beyond Apple levels. Samsung and Asus are getting it. Toshiba is still compromising. Everyone’s raving about Samsung Series 9. Asus’ UX32VD is always out of stock in online stores. They’re almost as or more expensive than equivalent Apple products. And no one’s gushing about or buying Toshiba’s Portege, which was my first Ultrabook crush.

Then two days ago I read Cialdini’s Influence: Psychology of Persuasion and the gazillobytes of observation data accumulated over many many years whirred and clicked into place. Kaya pala! Nothing new, nothing groundbreaking. Mostly common sense stuff we already know, or do deliberately or unknowingly.

The moral lesson is: Antanga-tanga pala natin.

 (To Be Continued...)

Foolish Circles

It's like banging your head against a wooden pole. Slapping (I hate "facepalm" so much!) your cheeks till your palms turn red. Write or die. That's my story. You can call me crazy, and no it's not maybe. This writing thing has my number. And keeps on ringing it. Ringining and ringining. Tingining life 'to.

Vanity. That's the root of it. With hunched shoulders, right slightly higher than left, telling the world I can do lots of other things. Numbers? Yes! I can do numbers. I can crunch and pivot and OLAP the life out of data. Code? Yes! I won't write it because I go catatonic when I attempt to, but I sure know how other people do and I can make their code crash any time I want to. Enterprise Architecture? Waddahek. Give me all your org stuff and I'll TOGAF and Archimate your org knots until they're all laid out in neat straight lines. 

And also because I'm such a pok-pok. There isn't anything I won't do if I'm paid well enough to do it. Except, I've noticed that lately all that people want to pay me for is write!

So I'm back. But this time, I'm backer! Because now, this thing I'm writing for isn't pure pokpokan. There's also pukpukan! Real honest to goodness investigative data-driven journalism which they now call content marketing. Which is really just another marketing ploy meant to impress old people who actually understand new media except new people would rather they don't.

And I'm loving it this time. So I'll probably revive this blog which I hope no one reads because it might be self-incriminating. I might again be accused of Sottoporting, which meant the accusers didn't read what I wrote. Over the last year I found out that content curation and blogging are conjoined at the butt. I need to blog again.

Full circle

I've been avoiding writing as a means of livelihood all the time, for the longest time. I thought tech was the solution. Wrong.

Tech types (most of them) haaate any form of formal documentation. Formal here meaning grammar and composition and all that. They have no problem writing scripts and code. So I eventually always end up doing the writing part. Or maybe I need to be kept away from email. They also hate reading more than one paragraph of more than three sentences of more than four to five words each. I write chapters. For someone who declares he doesn't want to make a living out of writing...

I need to stop this warla with words. Or maybe It's just English I'm quarreling with. Will try to write in Cebuano and Tagalog. I need to reclaim my ability to think in these languages. In mid-paragraph I hear myself blabberring away but I feel disconnected with the words coming out of my mouth because of the extra layer of translation going on.

Try nga natin....

Ambot unsa'y akong nahuna-hunaan. Sa wa'y hinungdan wa mapugngi ang kahidlaw sa kanhing kinaham nga lauya. Ang kalainan, lahi ang lauyang nagduwa-duwa sa akong alimpatakan. Nganong bukog-bukog man. Di diay mahimo ang pata?... Pata? what's Cebuano for pata? Is it pigi?

Try nga again...

Sa di mawaring dahilan 'di ko mapigilang mag-crave... Mag-crave talaga? Ay leche.... next time na nga lang...!

Missed

Missed this blog and thought it was lost forever. Funny how passwords remain buried in the subconscious and reveal themselves when they're least expected to. I think we should do away with passwords altogether and instead require all gadgets to have retina scan as the default authentication method. Or maybe saliva analysis, You shout Open Sesame ten times or until you froth in the mouth enough for saliva to spew onto the screen where it sizzles while the acid therein is analyzed by the touch screen, Or something else. Whatever. Anything that doesn't require me to memorize something. Leche!

25 Things About Me

One of my earlier FB accounts was hacked so I forgot all about it until just minutes ago when while checking my email, a message from FB popped saying I was requesting to change my password. Ah ganun ba? Heheheee... So now I have the account back.

Heniwey, while backreading I found this! Written 12 months ago, still rings true.

25 Things About Me.

1. I am not a grumpy person. I may look like one but I'm not. Not always. There are days when I don't grump at all. They may be few and far in between but.. Oh okay, I'm grumpy.

2. I love eating out. I like trying new places (to me, even if they've been around for decades). The motive being that I will attempt to cook at home whatever it is that captures my fancy. In twenty years of trying, I have never been successful. I always end up making my own version which is not quite like what I ate when I ate out. But I can always rely on my pancit bihon and lechon kawale to draw rave reviews.

3. My lechon kawale is triple cooked. Boiled, baked and fried. I only cook lechon kawale for people deserving of such a labor of love. More labor than love really. Ang hirap eh. Portugal. It has to be frozen overnight after boiling.

4. I like four-wheeled motor vehicles. But I have never seriously contemplated buying one, or inheriting a dilapidated one from my relatives. I love life. Mine and other people's. Sometimes, I want to go forward but then I realize my destination rapidly shrinks as I accelerate. It's that bad.

5. I am a magnet for life-threatening freak accidents, the last one being when I covered for XXXXX XXX and the bus I was riding post-shift slammed into a wall in SLEX.

6. I'll go back to school in June. Sublime Karma. (P.S. Karma nga. Those were months of pure hell)

7. In school we lined up according to height. In Grade 3 I was first in line, in Grade 4 I was last. Something happened that summer in between.

8. In Grade 3 I was suspended for scrubbing a classmate's face on loose gravel. In Grade 4 I was suspended for saying "You're lying" to the teacher at the top of my voice. The other suspensions are now a distant blur.

9. If I made too much noise in class the teachers would lock me up in the library instead of making me stand in the corner where I'd still be making lots of noise. Everyday I would try to make as much noise as I could. I loved the library so so much.

10. Between the ages of 8-16, I slept in other people's houses more than I did in my own. My house was just a stone's throw away from school. I'd do that even during weekdays, but still managed to never be absent. My parents simply gave up looking for me. When I was about 10yo, they had the radio announcer broadcast this message... "umuwi ka na... hindi ka daw papaluin..."

11. In college I frequently survived on kamatis and itlog na maalat for weeks on end, because I had blown a whole month's allowance away on Skiva Ruki,and Britannia, Sassoon, and Jordache etc... in Cartimar.

12. Sen. Francis Pangilinan was my team mate in the UP Men's Volleyball Team at the same time that Sen. Pia Cayetano was playing for the women's team. I studied in Los Banos but played for and practiced in Diliman. But played for and practiced in Los Banos also... at the same time. MWF and TTh held a different meaning for me. Oh... and I hit Kristy Ramos on the face with a volleyball but I'm still alive... that's why I campaigned for Fidel Ramos.

13. I hated iPods until I was given one (sort of). Now i obsess about in-ear headphones all the time. I have a Bose Tri-Port but I'd also like to have Klipsch's Image X5, Denon's C551, and a token Shure headset that's out of production therefore on sale (masabi lang...).

14. I love kakiage. Tried making this at home and ended up with something resembling OKOY. I love tempura. I tried making this at home and was successful only with kamote and talong. I can never quite get shrimp right. But they're expensive so why bother.

15. I watched all episodes of "So You Think You Can Dance -- Canada" over the holidays, on YouTube. Which prompted me to load up on all of Rick Astley's songs, because they're the last ones I remember dancing to. "And don't you know I would move heaven and earth to be together forever with youuuu"

16. I used to join amateur singing contests as a kid. Kinda like Regine Velasquez and Nora Aunor. Sometimes lost but mostly won... singing "Beeeen the two of us need look no moooore"

17. My first taste of glory was when I won the Southern Mindanao Regional Science Quiz (for Biology). I always thought I'd be a scientist someday. That was before I discovered sports. I like the smell of sweat on my jersey better than HCl on my lab gown.

20. I memorized the spelling of the longest word in the English dictionary because I might finally get to join a game show. Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. Hala. I think mali 'cos there's a squiggly red line running under it.

21. My dream career was to be a cook. Not a chef, but a cook. I'd open up my own carinderia and be famous for bila-bilaong pancit, ginataang labong, lechon kawale, and steaming hot bulalo.

22. I grew up in a town in the middle of a tree plantation surrounded by tropical forest. In a province that's mostly coastline facing the Pacific. It's hard for me to relate with the excitement over Boracay and Palawan.

23. I worked in the Middle East for some time, and discovered Indian food there. I can eat curry and chapati everyday for the rest of my life and I wouldn't be any less happier than if I ate rice. But smellier? Definitely.

24. I trained in Japan for three weeks but don't remember anything about "Digitization of Public Information" because I was too busy window shopping and eating.

25. I will buy a mountain bike this year. (P.S. Hindi nangyari, wish lang talaga pero malabo)

The Perfect Excuse

I needed an excuse to start blogging again, something that ignites my stove and gets the soup bubbling. I was hovering in and out, in and out until I realized it's a week away from the Australian Open. I don't have Sky which has Balls TV which has cornered aaalll the grand slams except the Australian Open, which is aired on Star Sports which my cable Tv provider carries.

I was planning to crusade with McVie for Solar Sports to improve programming by getting the slams but he flatly told me he's with marketing, not programming. But won't turn the soup cold because the Aussie Open will be enough fuel. Until the French of course. Kase naman.

For good measure I'll also blog about the one sport I know how to play really well. Okay, knew. It's been twenty years since my high-flying UAAP days when I left skin on the floor for my alma mater and I haven't been following UAAP volleyball action for the longest time until last year when U.P. almost made it, but now I'm excited.

I wont blog about work. I won't blog about school. I won't blog about love and libido. I discovered that these topics were the cause of this blog's near demise.

I will blog about food -- my food, restaurant food, restaurants, but not Restaurant City on Facebook.

I will blog about movies and TV (what little of them I manage to force myself to watch).

I will blog about books.

I will blog about clothes, other people's clothes.

I will blog.

Repeat after me, me.

I... will.... blog.

The Unbearable Heaviness of Upward Mobility

It all started with knees.

One fine day, I joined the fire drill in RCBC Plaza. This drill involved walking all the way down to the ground level from the 20-something floor where our office is.

All the people half my age could hardly stand up, knees shaking, when we got to the bottom. I, on the other hand, carless for the greater part of of my adult life and walking daily from Pasay Road to Ayala/Buendia in less than 20 minutes without sunblock or shame fared better than all of them. No hint of jellyness, except for the niggling pain of sports injuries resurrected by vigorous exertion.

So the plan was set. When it's time to buy my own pad I'll go for a walkup one. One without elevators so I won't have an option to cheat.


And I found one! And I bought it, sort of. Paid a lump sum as equity so that my PAGIBIG loan for the balance will fall into the correct interest rate bracket. Happy happy me? Well, yes, until the itch to stitch bit.

I started imagining partitions and cabinets and range hoods and tiles. Tiles! They had to be 60cm x 60cm diagonally set because conventional interior decor wisdom has it that this makes a small place look a lot bigger.

Budget here, budget there. Kasya! I would only need roughly 90 pieces for the whole place. Plus consumables like grout and tile bonding agent of around 20 bags weighing 25 kilos per bag.

Choosing which tile design best reflected my personality was pure joy. I was willing to pay for top of the line Spanish tiles which were selling at 50% off. Heaven. Of course my common sense kicked in right away and I was soon down to two choices. Wood or leather. I was so amazed that ceramic tiles could actually look so close. Leather won. Ramos Cuero. I carefully chose the grout color to match. Paid for everything. Arranged for delivery. I was drooling. I just needed those tiles to be set and I could do anything with the place! Frosted glass on partitions and doors, cabinets of a lighter tone, etc etc.

Two days later, my tiles came crashing down on the dream. Not literally. To my horror, I soon found out (stupid me I didn't do due diligence) that most construction stuff suppliers, appliance dealers, and all other stores that need sweaty muscular young men to deliver stuff DO NOT deliver beyond ground level. And my condo-condohan has this policy of kanya-kanyang bitbit. Even if they were contracted to install my tiles, I had to find a way to haul everything up. Eeeek! 90 super heavy tiles. I could hardly even budge a pack of four, let alone lift it. 20 bags weighing 25 kilos each of tile bonding adhesive! What did I get myself into?

I mean, I wanted daily exercise so I chose the topmost fifth floor unit of that walk-up mid-priced condo in the suburban south. Honest. But not naman that I would consume the daily calorie quota intended for a year in one day only. Wag naman. I'm not a Darna person, and will never be even if I swallow stones and sand and gravel.

And since aminado naman talaga ako that I can't do a Darna with those tiles, I did a Valentina na lang. I used the potent combination of fear and charm to get the supplier to haul everything up. "I will return everything! You pay me back!" And then of course I ambushed the delivery boys and flirted with them. [According to reliable sources boys I flirt with actually have sleepless nights for several weeks, scary kase the way I stare like I'll eat them alive or something tapos di ko naman pala itutuloy eh namutla na nga sila sa pinaghalong libog at kaba, 'chos]. Plus, of course, I paid them handsomely. Mas correct, I paid the handsome one. Meaning, sa kanya ko inabot yung pasasalamat.

So there, problem solved. For now.

I dread the day when I have to do this all over again for the ref, the aircon, etc. etc. It's not easy dealing with toned sweaty young men who use their muscles to earn an honest buck. There's always the temptation to corrupt the honesty.

But like everything, these too shall come to pass and either of two things will happen. Everything that needs to be moved up will be moved up and I will need to spend extra for labor, or everything that needs to be moved up will be moved up and I will spend extra for the laborer. :=)

Why Smart People Do Dumb Things

Lots and lots of food for thought. Lots and lots of thought.

Title links to the article. If you follow the link through, don't miss reading the comments.

I Looked Into It!

As a post-finals exam reward, I’m blogging.

But first the exam. I studied. I really did. I even memorized all the acronyms and faithfully learned Dijkstra’s algorithm for computing the shortest path of a packet transmission from one node to another. I thought I had it all in the bag. I wasn’t aiming for perfect, I just wanted tres. And wow, did I zip through the 100-item exam. But the very last question (worth 20 points) drained the blood from my face.

I was supposed to name at least 20 reserved TCP ports, and identify the application reserved for each. If the port number and application didn’t match, wrong. Oh lord. At that very moment, I felt completely and utterly mortal. I realized I was nearer to death than I was to birth, and my once-famous photographic memory is now only capable of sad sepias. Honestly I never ever anticipated that 20% of the exam will come from that miniscule table tucked away in one corner of one page. One page! And the coverage was around 120 pages. So I did what was proper. I left the item blank, submitted my paper and left the room. So what if I spent only 45 minutes of the allotted three hours? Even if I stayed until the very end, nothing approaching a correct answer would have flowed from my pen. Something approaching tears, baka pa.

But, nothing will dampen my spirits for maybe the next three or four weeks. All because of Eugene Domingo and Kimmy Dora. I had seizures inside the cinema. Like always my laughter was maniacal and prompted my seatmates to the left and right (I was watching alone) to change seats. But what were we watching this movie for, anyway? Eh sa hindi ko talaga mapigilan.

For a good part of the movie I was laughing at us who were trained like Dora by DingDong to say these three golden nuggets of wisdom when we need to say something but don’t know exactly what to say:

1. I’ll look into it.
2. I’ll give you an update.
3. I’ll get back to you on that.

Those very same words. For two weeks now I simply couldn’t keep a straight face in the office. Problem talaga because I say these things by force of habit. And even if I say “I’ll keep you posted,” or “I’ll have an answer for you within the day,” or some other similar cultural necessity (because we all need to speak the language and grease the wheels of progress nga naman) wa epek pa din. Specially when I contemplate appending najejebs to any of these. I still blush a deep red from controlling the urge to go epileptic. A deep purplish red, because the experience is very similar to having an unwanted and embarassing erection.

Sige na nga lang. This too, like all agonies, shall pass. Wag lang akong itapon sa malayo, apak-apakan at paluin ng tsinelas.

This Blog is Officially Closed

But since I'm a fan of Tristan, I'll decide to reopen it within the amount of time required to make three tabs to navigate from Title to Compose. I suddenly remembered crossposting from and to Multiply is possible. I'm not so sure I can with Wordpress, but I'll give it a shot.

Trekking Linabo, Inhaling Dakak

So I was finally dragged by relatives away from my musty, dusty, smoke-filled hole-in-the-wall and out into sunshine and fresh air. It turns out that we have a huge. huge branch of the family tree on the mother side in Zamboanga del Norte, specifically in and around Dipolog.

And because we were there already, why not spend a night in Dakak? So we did. There was nothing supertacular about the resort. It had the usual monobloc tables and chairs and the requisite floral shirts as staff uniform. There was something tacky about the whole place, but tasteful decor isn't the come-on. It's the air. Pure as pure can be. The sand isn't as fine or as white as Boracay's (haven't been to Bora so I took my cousins' word for it), and the sea wasn't still and blinding blue, but the wind blowing from it was like liquid oxygen (fed from a tube straight up your nostrils). I wanted to just sit and deeeeep breathly for hours.



I grew up in Mindanao but I swear this province is a lot more blessed than the others I've stayed in. The green of its vegetation is so vivid it's almost painful to look at. After you've stared at the plants and trees here I swear you'll feel sad for the the flora in Manila. One friend who's originally from Bontoc and who now works in Manila said that the leaves (of the mangosteen tree, for example, growing in our host's backyard) looked like they were waxed everyday.



And there was absolutely no chance to feel guilty about all the food we shoveled down our throats. Oysters (P100 for half a sack), Andres-Andres (a seashell unique to the area), crabs (small and not as fantastic as Surigao's but crabs are crabs), freshly-picked mangosteen (at P30-40 a kilo, imagine?), longkong lanzones (a bit pricey but worth it), durian (almost as cheap as Davao's but with a unique flavor; they say the taste always depends on the soil and climate of the area where it's grown). Why no guilt? Because in the afternoon of the day before we left for Manila (meaning yesterday), they made us climb the 3,000++ steps up Linabo Peak.


In the picture above on the lower left side you'll see 1,800 clearly painted in white on the steps. For the record I made it way past that point. A few hundred steps beyond that you'll come across a mini plateau and, believe it or not, an elementary school! They say the students and teachers walk up to the school everyday. Wow! But going down they ride the rails using plastic net bags. It was a Sunday so I didn't see the spectacle for myself, but the metal rails are so smooth you wouldn't think twice about believing the story.

Of course I wasn't told about this side trip so I didn't come prepared. I was wearing Birkenstocks! After that climb, my faith in the product jumped a quantum leap up. My feet didn't hurt at all, the Arizona slip-on didn't break or show obvious signs of wear from the ordeal, and I never wavered or had a misstep on the way down in darkness because, of course, we had to wait at the peak for the sun to set before starting the trek down.

The sunset was something else. As the sun disappeared over the horizon, it was a sunset like any other. But a minute or two after the sun sank the sky morphed into a giant fireworks show -- golden rays shooting through clouds, and... and... and... there are no words enough to describe the beauty (or maybe I'm not the kind who would or could). My sister tried to do a running commentary of the spectacle and I, of course, bitched. "This is a visual, not auditory, experience. And don't try taking pictures either or you'll miss the show."

A few hours before we left for Manila, it was pasalubong time and to my extreme delight I found out that Dipolog is THE source for bottled sardines (and bangus, tuyo, herring, etc.) in olive oil. Montanos is the preferred brand and the prices are worth excess baggage fees (e.g the same bottle of spanish sardines in olive oil is sold in Shopwise for P98 but can be bought for P56 only in the Montanos outlet). I've tried gourmet tuyo in olive oil with freshly-streamed rice. Heaven! The sardines, they say, are perfect for pasta and as pizza topping din daw with sun-dried tomatoes. Tsk tsk. I have to give all those bottles away. LOL.

All told, this is an experience I'll definitely repeat. The trek up Linabo Peak, that is, not the pigging out.

Also, I won't be allergic to taking vacations with the family anymore. Yeah, the women are noisy and nosy and fussy but I have an iPod.

Rip What You Sew

And so it came to pass I realized that even in the world of massive multiplayer online social gaming, karma rules.

Eh kse naman, hinack ko ng hinack my gourmet points in Facebook’s Restaurant City so now I have this faaabulously big restaurant and I can hire the maximum number of people (eight) and all the nine plots in the garden (new feature added today lang) are unlocked. But do I have money? ‘Nyeta.

I found out that (1) you really don’t enjoy something you didn’t work hard for and (2) if you go big time suddenly the old rich will still turn their noses up at you even if you can pee higher. So in unreal life as in real, the same rules apply. After all, there are very real people behind those very unreal ‘toons walking ika-ika.

My first thought was.. why do I have to suffer this ignominy? I can always use PayPal to buy coins and splurge on decoration and ingredients. But no! Haven’t I learned enough? I’ll wing it the hard way and build up points while salivating over that most expensive item of indoor décor – the Ming vase. I was planning on having eight of those craftily scattered as if carelessly inside the restaurant.

But no! I will control my saliva and focus on earning my coins one day at a time, with the thought in mind that each day I play gets me a new ingredient, free!

So there, I now know the true meaning of the aphorism “Reap what you sow.”

And since my newfound status as a high roller in the food and drinks stakes was ill-gotten and shadier than the acacias of Forbes, I will have to undo the fabric of lies that weave together my dream karinderya and admit that this thing I’ve sewn together will have to be ripped asunder.

Or maybe not. I can always cloak its origins with the sheen of social responsibility. It has been done before. It can happen again. I will give away free tiles to aspiring restaurateurs. I have three roofs and I only need one. I can give away two. I covered the whole building with extremely expensive glass doors and windows, hiding the brick beneath. I can give these doors and windows away… Noooo…!!!!!

I’ve spent too much on electricity already. I deserve all those points. Plus, hacking needs brainpower. That was my equity. Most of all, if my laptop suddenly gives because I’ve left it on non-stop for two weeks already, I need a reason to buy myself a Mac Book Pro. The me of three months ago would have despised the me that I’ve become.

But… I won’t have internet access for three days starting today, as in now na… I’m done packing and will be off to the airport in two hours. I hope these three days will be enough to slap me to my senses.

The Blur that was August

First the imperial boss arrived from the ‘Merika. When gods descend, mere humans quiver like gelatin in buko-pandan salad. I’d like to think I’m made of stronger stuff. Unfortunately, I have a brood of kids that I need to protect so the last two weeks were a blur of trying to ensure that my kids did their cartwheels to perfection.

Then there were the needless moments of agonizing over assignments for school. Days and days of guilt and anxiety that dissipated when I finally sat down to attend to them. Madali lang naman pala. Of course I had to wait for the eleventh hour. I think I’ll never ever rid myself of the addiction to cramming. The adrenaline rush is pure joy! Perhaps it’s my way of reconnecting to my cavemen ancestors. Because I don’t have giant snakes or some other prehistoric beast trying to eat me for breakfast, I get my survivor surge from anthropomorphizing my schoolwork and pretending they were vampires out to suck me. I mean, suck my blood. ‘Chos.

First week of the month I went home to the province to make my Papa happy on his 84th birthday. Because vacations are usually the most hectic and non-relaxing of all human activities, this set the tone for the rest of the month.

While all these were happening, I discovered Restaurant City on Facebook. In two weeks of playing I now am Level 27 thanks to (minor) hacking and leaving my laptop on overnight.

So there, this is my excuse for not posting enough, and I know it’s not enough but what can I do? I’m only human.

Entitlement

I’ve always wondered what it is in Roger Federer that makes me want to not like him. He has the moves, after all -- the fluidity, the grace, the power deftly disguised and always lethal.

One fine day out of virtually nowhere the epiphany hit me like caveman’s club on my cone-shaped head. Heapin’ excreta! There’s one word that sums up the smugness, the (sometimes) misplaced and often grating confidence. One word that sums up his thinly veiled contempt for lesser beings.

Entitlement. His utterly blinkless assumption of his place in history’s pantheon of greats. It matters not to me that he actually racked up enough chips to make a sure bet on the GOAT (greatest of all time) stakes.

Perhaps it says a lot about me and my proclivity for underdogs, and I’m quite consistent about it in almost everything.

And because there are too many things I want to say on the topic, as usual I’ll end up saying too little.

Hands and Noses

My kibbitz on the National Artist award upheaval (uprising?).

I think I need to change my alias to something that doesn't sound anything like anonymous. LOL.

Oh well, I have no pretensions about art and all that so I shouldn't really be plunking in my two cent's worth. Plus, I sometimes get a kick from really cheap stuff so I can't stick a finger up Carlo's. However, I would hate getting kicked in the face so I sympathize with those who feel that way about Guidote-Alvarez.

The protest against Carlo I really can’t get. I grew up on comics. It's low art, yes, and I find it funny that people name other lower artists as more deserving. So their art is lower? Or a higher form of low? This whole thing about which body of work is more deserving is confusing me, because I can't see how this protest against Carlo's art will lead to better art in general. Filipinos are not known for subtlety or nuance. We're vulgar and tacky and inane. Maybe Carlo's award is a reflection of what we really are as a people? That it comes as a slap in the face to the well-bred and the well-read is no surprise. It reminds them of the one thing they've been running away or were insulated from all their lives. Eeewww... no... noooo. I'm not like that, that doesn't represent me! I'm a Filipino and I'm so not like that. Well...

As for this Guidote-Alvarez thing... Was there no chance at all that she'd have won this award on merit alone at any time other than the Glorious incumbency? She's so kapal and all that? Hmmm... I think that to raise the consciousness of the masses to a level where they would feel indignation over this utter indecency the masses should first be weaned away from beauty contests, singing contests, reality show contests, mr. bikini contests, and all such contests. Anything of this kind can be rigged, and is always rigged. In the Philippines most specially but also everywhere else. There is always an agenda, even for the most deserving, and it is always a reflection of the times.

In fact, in skewed agreement to Juanna and her thesis, this National Artist scam couldn't have happened at a better time. Perhaps this was a brilliant stroke of PR genius.

At a time when everyone wants to deduct two inches off GMA's height, this adds two more feet to the dungpile. And because the noses offended are very sensitive, the collective achoo is bound to have enough physics to dislodge irritating boogers. But only if they achoo many many times and infect others with achoo fever. Otherwise, this will be just one insignificant blip in the social achoometer. However, I strongly doubt that this irritation has enough methane to sustain a prolonged achoo.

The arts is notorious for taking the craft of backstabbing and oneupmanship to rarefied levels, as much as it is revered for giving form to what's beautiful, good, and true. And this is because art is but the mirror of the fingernail of the hand that feeds it. And the hands of patrons, sponsors, and benefactors at one time or another would have made the trip to the nether regions to clean up the call of nature. And whether this breeds in them the desire to fill the air with perfume or share the stink with many is immaterial. Only one thing is true. Art feeds off the hand -- somebody else’s or the artist's own. Any hand, it doesn’t really matter. The hand is bound to show up in the art it helped create.

No hand, no art. Bad hand, bad art.

Which brings me right back to my original confusion. What are we up in arms against? Is it the art, or the hand? Is it at all possible to smell the art without smelling the hand? Who thinks art shouldn’t be fed at all because it is capable of feeding itself, thank you? Who says art is exempt from “never bite the hand that feeds you?” Who says I couldn’t care less? Raise your hand. Many would like to cut it off.

But really, to actually take to the streets over an art award is so Pinoy. Other cultures would simply gossip about it over tea and cucumber sandwiches. Sometimes a wrist or two is slashed, sometimes people jump off buildings, but these cases are individual acts of ultimate protest. Perhaps these cultures have had high art for centuries already, so they can be calm about it? We, on the other hand, constantly raise the bar for collective public display of emotion as art. Theater of the streets with riveting raw power. Extemporaneous apparently, spontaneous seemingly, but if you sniff hard enough, your nose will always lead you to the directors' hands. We have such soft noses.

Growing Up and Cory Aquino

I think everyone who blogs and was technically capable of reproduction when Cory became president is obliged to post about her passing. Here’s mine.

Fresh out of high school and into the frying pan, I was forced to audition for a role in the play “Alay sa Sigwa ng Unang Kwarto (In Honor of the First Quarter Storm). I was actually holding hands with my talent scout all the way to audition not because we were an item but because I think that was his way of making sure I wouldn’t run away. On hindsight, I think that was a moment for him but I knew nothing back then. He grew up in Tondo and graduated from Torres so I think he must have been self-aware already. Me? I was fresh meat from the farm.

“Sigwa” is quintessential “tibak” theatre -- spare sets, and lines that will never ring false no matter what era spoken. “Ang lipunang Pilipino’y sakmal ng malalang krisis. And sambayanan ay naduduhagi sa pagdarahop.” How we’ll ever escape being sakmaled by one krisis or the other I don’t know. There will always be naduduhagi people living in abject pagdarahop.

For the record, my roots will always be working class. I am just one generation removed from my farmer granddads – honest-to-goodness Mindanao homesteaders who owned as much land as they could clear and I think they cleared a lot. And because they knew how difficult the farming life could be, they made sure the generation of my parents all had college education. And so the parents and aunts and uncles became teachers and professors and dentists and all that. I, therefore, had a sub-privileged childhood. In Grade 3 I could bake a chiffon cake all by myself (whisking eggs whites to a stiff included) and eat it all by myself, too! You could count with your fingers and toes the households in our town that had an oven. We were one of the toes.

In elementary and high school, Martial Law proved to be both a stabilizing and destabilizing force. We were lulled into prolonged periods of quiet punctuated very infrequently by the percussive staccato of gunfire. Often it was far away, but one time it was near enough to punch multiple punctuations on our tin roof.

Meanwhile, the aunts and uncles were developing their own political preferences. One went the military way and eventually became a colonel in the Philippine Constabulary. One dropped out of UP and became a councilor before dropping out again to go up the mountains. One stayed in UP and became a professor and then a director of one government agency. My Mom was the moving force behind the local chapter of the Alliance of Concerned Teachers. We were not an apolitical family.

Because a steady diet of Tom Swift, Nancy Drew, Hardy Boys and Bobsey Twins can do this to you, I grew up an avowed capitalist. You are what you eat. So I went to the “Sigwa” auditions mainly because my scout was persistent. Plus he was holding my hand, I had no choice. Fast forward to after the auditions when it was announced that I was to play Kinatawan ng Proletraryado and those naduduhagi and pagdarahop lines were mine plus five more pages in long bond paper back to back.

What?

I never knew if my rendition of “bangon sa pagkakabusabos, bangon alipin ng gutom” ever came across as convincing. Maybe not because I was wearing Levi’s on stage. But I did acquire beefcake status because I wore nothing else the whole time. I was half naked on stage for almost two hours. And for myself I acquired a whole new way of looking at things. In other words, caught between Ayn Rand and Marx, I was a blabbering mess.

As I was busy being a blabbering mess, Ninoy happened. I remember that day very clearly. The TV was on in the cafeteria, a hushed crowd in front of it. I knew something life-changing was going on. I didn’t know all that much about the history between Ninoy and Macoy, except that Ninoy was the last best chance for change. I had no great sympathy for Ninoy prior to that day, nor did I have great love or hate for Marcos. But boy did I cry. I must be extra-wired to the social psyche because I felt a very strong surge of emotion right there and then for something I didn’t quite understand.

That void would soon be filled in trickles by the mosquito (some are now full-grown elephants, but that’s another story) press. I read. I listened. I watched a let’s-tusok-the-fishballs friend cry on the bus as she struggled for words to express her outrage. I think I remember saying that we should be happy for the changes his death will bring about (or words to that effect). Shocked, she could do nothing except stab me in the face with dagger stares.

And as the country spiraled into chaos in the years that followed, so did my life.

Cory was my foothold to hope. Her voice cheered me up. The way she pronounced “support” will forever echo in my chamber of happy moments. People talk about missed opportunities and could’ve beens? C’mon. She was what we needed at the time, and she couldn’t have made those misses all by herself. She was ill-prepared to be President? Maybe we were unprepared to be without Marcos.

Like it or not, a president is the sum of all our aspirations and desperations. I believe that we always get the president that we deserve, and Lord knows we needed a break. We deserved to have one blazing yellow beacon in Cory Aquino in those darkest of times. We needed inspiration? We got it. That was all we were asking for. So now we tarnish her memory for what, not inspiring us enough? Enough!

She might not have been the greatest president, but her legacy extends far beyond her tenure in Malacanang. In fact, it extends right into our living rooms. Because, you see, the Kris is an embodiment of the nation – the sum of all our hopes and fears for the generation that comes after us. If Cory remained faithful to the public embarrassment that her daughter has become, there is a lesson to be learned. It provides stark contrast to the frenzied hand-washing and buck-passing of feckless public officials when caught in a bind. If Kris had been the daughter of some other president, she might have been exiled to Iligan to live with the Lola and let loose her wild horses in relative solitude.

Now, if Kris does her mother proud and transfigures from a Boy into a Ninoy, there is hope for our children yet. And Kris, in so doing, lays Cory's good soul to rest.

What's school got to do with it?

To channel Tina:

What’s school got to do with it?
What’s school but second-hand education
What’s school got to do with it?
Who needs a school when your cool can be broken…

That’s just me bittergraping about sleepless nights because I had to finish assignments and study for exams and all that. “The roots of education are bitter, but the fruits sweet.” How true.


And hey Tristan, how come I'm not looking any better despite being bitter? My belly is bloated, my eyebags have sunk lower than the Titanic (millimeters away from "hello cheekbones!"), and I have lost all urge to (window) shop.

Oh well. Maybe I'm not really bitter. Just plain tired. Very very tired.