The Upper Blog

The notebook (not that one)

2012-01-31T16:56:00.002+08:00

I bought my first Glee CD in Singapore. I was there smack in the middle of the release date, and I assumed they will never reach our shores. I assumed, naïvely, that the show will not become a big hit here, never mind the fact that I turned a few people on to the show (insert obligatory Icka Facebook tag).

Of course, things turned out differently. The show became a huge hit here, and thus, the CDs were sold in local record stores. (There's also the thing about me being an expert gleek of sorts, thanks to my work, but I will not go there. Yet.) And I did like the show. I really did. So, I kinda vowed to collect all of the show's soundtracks - they will be available here, after all, and they have pretty good songs.

Things have changed, of course. Glee went downhill from the second half of the first season, got really frustrating by the second season, and become more of an obligation than a joy by the third. (Then again, I still get excited about certain Glee-related things. Like, say, this.) But I still bought the CDs. Sometimes I bought the CDs by impulse. Only lately did I start stalling. They won't go out of stock, I told myself, correctly. Some of the CDs haven't been played, either. Impulse.

At some point, because some local record executives decided to go for a bigger audience, or something like that, the Glee CDs came with free notebooks. Now, I love notebooks - well, more of, I love writing on paper, since I don't tend to use these notebooks. The first was, I think, with the third soundtrack. The album came out three weeks behind schedule. We waited three weeks for a notebook? I ranted.

Karla saw that rant and decided she wanted that notebook. So, fine, I'll give it to her. Another excuse to meet a friend.

It took a while for us to meet. Our eventual meeting came months after: I ended up crashing a farewell dinner for Kat, who was then headed to Austria. Found out that Karla already had a copy of the notebook I was going to give her - from a friend of hers at nursing school, I think - but then again, she said, she needs all the notebooks she can get her hands on. School notes. Frugal people will take a freebie as long as it's useful. So, she got the notebook, and I got the conversation, although not the dinner, because I did not plan to spend on dinner. Frugal people, again.

When the next Glee CD I bought - I assume it's the fourth, but I'm not sure now - came with a notebook again, I immediately told Karla. This time we had conflicting schedules: she can't head to Ortigas, I can't head to Quezon City, you get the drill. Then I left Ortigas and started working at home. She started medical duties, or her classes got busier, or something. I can't really remember. All I know is that the notebook is still with me, in the same bag I used when I still had an office to work in. It's still there.

When I attended the Tahanan premiere last week, I used that same bag again. I took out everything I don't need, Karla's notebook included. She was supposed to have it for human anatomy class, I think, but that was so last semester. Or two. I don't know if she still needs that notebook. (I'm not saying this in a teary-eyed fashion.)

As for my Glee CDs? I'm thinking of removing them from my main CD library.

But I don't now

2012-01-29T16:43:00.001+08:00

It occurred to me a few days ago. How much time do we spend trying to move on from something?

I don't know why I thought about it either. I was just thinking of random sentences when this particular thought struck me. You don't move on when you try your hardest to move on. Odd, because ideally, you're supposed to convince yourself first that you have to move on before you start moving on. The acceptance stage, as they call it.

But then I looked back over the many times I tried to move on - from heartbreak, mostly - and realized that nothing really happens when I consciously try to do it. This is not working, I thought at one point, seven years ago. I have to get out. But the more I repeated that last line to myself, the more I sunk deeper. The more I sounded desperate. And then, before I knew it, I was out.

I mentioned the idea of distractions before. It keeps your mind off things. It keeps you occupied. It gives you something else to think about.

It mostly works. You have something new to be excited about, and somehow it trumps what you were excited about before - what you are disillusioned about now. (Of course you're no longer disillusioned. You're distracted.) There will be times, still, when your thoughts drift back to the past, preferably while thinking of random sentences, and you go, what went wrong? And you unknowingly feel terrible about yourself. And then you start blaming the other side. And then you tell yourself that you have to snap out of it. It never really leaves you until you plunge head first into that distraction again.

Time will pass by and you'll have those thoughts again. What went wrong? Suddenly you'll be able to address it in detail. You have so much in common. What went wrong? Of course, it's possible that there really wasn't anything in common before, that you changed to suit the situation, without realizing that it didn't work. But that never occurs to you. Look at you, acting like nothing happened. You barely realize that there's a rift. But you know there's supposed to be a rift. But you've forgotten about most of it now.

And then, when it's over, you ask again. What went wrong? You look back at what just happened, as opposed to what happened before, and you realize you did what you never thought you'd do.

Of course, it doesn't change things. You don't have to forgive anyone, nor forget anything. I haven't. In all those instances I certainly haven't. I still think certain things should be acknowledged. I still believe certain people have fatal faults. But suddenly, it doesn't matter so much anymore. You've opened the front door and you've done what you weren't supposed to do, only because it felt right at the time. Like nothing happened before.

It shouldn't have happened. You'd fret then. But I don't now. That's when you know. But you never say to yourself that you know. You don't need to.

Her night

2012-01-24T18:33:00.000+08:00

The last time I attended a film premiere, for Paglipad ng Anghel, I was a bit wary that Sir Doy had forgotten me. We saw each other after the screening; he smiled and nodded at me, and then left.

To be fair, that was his night. It was his film. And he definitely isn't the type of person who'd forget his students, especially his more recent ones, just like that. Last night, another film premiere, we finally caught up with each other - he was headed to the cocktail area, while I was standing around, a bit foolishly, wondering if there's anybody else I know beyond facial recognition.

"Ano na trabaho mo?" he asked. The usual questions, then.

"I write for an American entertainment website," I answered. The usual answers. But I was feeling a little more proud of myself. This is, after all, Sir Doy, the guy who wrote "you can write" in one of my film criticism papers. He smiled and nodded at me, and then left. "Kita tayo later," he said.

We were attending the premiere of Krizzie's film, Tahanan. A feature-length film. Certainly makes for a change after watching Jason's Elysium and Misha's Oliver's Apartment - both shorts, I must note. It doesn't make it any less surreal, however. In both instances it felt like watching a child graduate, which is weird because they're both older than me. But I saw Jason explore his film options, mostly in thesis, but in part through the many school projects we've worked on. (Only he could get away with considering having me talk to a prostitute for a school project, an idea I never warmed to.) Misha? There's the thing about her dropping her business course and taking all of the electives we took, or had to take.

At least, with Krizzie, that feeling is more valid. I'm a year older than her. I think. Definitely I'm a batch above her. She's this video whiz kid who always wore plaid, or so I always imagined. I know we took the same course (more or less) but I never saw her often in the second floor of Miguel. But I know she's always been into film. I don't know the exact story, but I know the girl's a hard worker. Saw it myself when I attended (well, technically, got invited to) Ating Gabi, an event she spearheaded as CLA college government president. We never really got to talk much that night, for obvious reasons.

"So sorry I never got to say hi to you properly," she told me last night, right before, or perhaps after, the usual hugs. It was a full hour after I arrived at the Megamall's cinemas.

"It's okay," I answered. "I expected that."

I wasn't being jaded or anything. I knew. It was her night, after all. And by then I've seen a bunch of people that I did know. Kimmy was there with Ian, who worked on the film. EJ was busy eating his popcorn ("it's a movie," he'd counter) while talking to Keane. Janelle was also there, in blindingly high heels, although I just assumed she got thinner. Michelle was the last to arrive in my sort-of circle, sporting a shorter do, one that screams "editorial assistant at posh magazine". I had to describe it like that, sorry.

"Wait lang, ha," Krizzie later said, begging off to meet more well-wishers. There were a lot of them. (The premiere moved locations because a lot of guests confirmed their attendance. "She invited a lot," Kimmy said a few times during cocktails.) Actors, crew, family, friends, friends that made the whole thing feel like another La Salle reunion of sorts, except for the fact that there were a few familiar faces to me. I am now the parent. And Lauren Young fans, too.

Tahanan revolves around a college student (that'd be Young) who, initially reluctantly, goes to an orphanage for a two-month immersion. A typical Lasallian experience, I thought. You fulfill a school requirement, forever keeping in mind the need to be sensitive to the kids you'll be dealing with, and then when you get there, you get attached to them. And then, that's it. I wonder how the kids I met at Barangay Tagumpay are now. All grown up, definitely.

Being a bit of a feel-good film, Tahanan has a proper happy ending: Sam gets past her reluctance and realizes that she isn't the one helping the kids, but rather, it's the other way around. Perhaps the need for a realization bogged the film a bit down - the melodrama at the end felt a bit too much for me. But what made Tahanan work was the chemistry between Young and the kids at the orphanage, led by Kyla (played by Sabrina... agh, memory fails me again). It's like they really lived together. And it's not just the wise-cracking script, either. Improv? was a dominant through crossing my mind.

I'm not exactly sure. What I'm pretty sure of, though, is how well the kids worked with the crew. When I got to the cinema at half past five, I saw some of the kids there, waiting. Krizzie arrived a good forty-five minutes later, and before she could say hi to her friends, she was inundated by all of these kids. "Ate Krizzie!" they went, excitedly, rushing to their director, exchanging hugs, posing for photographs, that kind of stuff.

The screening ended a little after nine. The kids were excited again. Krizzie went up in front of the stage (or whatever resembles a stage in the cinema), thanking everyone. Her lead finally arrived; Lauren said a few words, posed for a few photographs, and left fairly quickly. And then Krizzie's friends came out again, asking for photographs again. That kind of stuff.

I talked a bit to Bia, one of Krizzie's friends who also happens to be a childhood friend of Kimmy's. (I hope I got that right.) She also has a film out, the same SM-sponsored film festival that Krizzie's part of: her film, the boxing-themed Suntok sa Buwan, premiered the night before. She mentioned that her premiere was more intimate - a smaller venue - but still, she felt overwhelmed.

"Naiyak ka ba?" Kimmy asked her, while we were watching Krizzie get inundated again by well-wishers and bouquets of flowers.

"The night before [the premiere]," Bia answered. (My usual disclaimer: these quotes are from memory. She definitely said a little more than I'm quoting now.) "Alam mo yun? Yung iniisip mo kung ano yung iniisip ng audience mo about your film."

"And the fact that it's out there," I butted in.

"Yeah," she nodded.

"And that it's just the beginning," I continued.

"Yeah."

We left the cinemas a little before ten. Bia and Kimmy were the last to have their photos taken with her inside the cinema - the former had a snazzy Polaroid camera, one that looked like the sort that's waterproof, three minutes to develop - and the director was anxious to change her outfit. And then she found out her purse was missing. She wasn't frantic about it - I assume she's tired, which she can't be, because there's an after party to attend, which probably means more well-wishers and, perhaps, more booze - but she was worried. No use in looking for a black purse in a barely-lit cinema, though. Her mom had it, along with the flowers.

Krizzie finally had some time for a proper goodbye - not much of an improvement, considering the last time we met we only had a hi and a goodbye, but I'm not complaining. There was a photograph, which is an improvement, a surprise one. A few more customary hugs, and then I walked out of the already closed mall, worried I'd get home late. That's my worry alone. If that thought crossed Krizzie's head, well, she wouldn't have thought much about it. Plaid attitude, you know. She got through writing the film, looking for funding, getting the festival slot, shooting the film, all that. (I can only know so much through Twitter.) She'll get through all the rest, I figured. Also, it's her night. It's all hers.

Tahanan will be screened for a week, starting tomorrow, at SM Mall of Asia, SM Megamall, SM North EDSA and SM Cebu. Same goes for the two other films in SM's Bigshot Festival: Suntok sa Buwan and Balang Araw, which happens to feature a certain Carlo Cruz. I know. Our batch? Films.

You're out

2012-01-20T17:28:00.001+08:00

"Mapili ka sa kaibigan."

It's an observation my mom offered yesterday, one that has never occurred to me. And that changes everything.

Whenever I have one of those hissy fits about not having friends, I run on the assumption that I'm not getting the responses that I want to get. In some cases, that really is the case. In others, turns out, I'm the one who's not giving the responses others want. True, everyone's guilty of taking some people for granted in favor of others. I'm sure I've done that a few times, while I'm busy chasing some crowd I have half an idea about because I'm really interested in one member.

But I'd like to think that, unless I'm given a reason to cut it off, I remember people. I get back to them when the chance comes up. I became friends with them, after all. I became friends with them because I wanted to. I thought they're nice, interesting, worth spending some time with, you get the drill.

I had a good think last night about my friendships that just didn't work out.

Strike one is the very first scuffle. The very first misunderstanding. I'll start acting like you don't exist because you ticked me off, but I know it's an immature, band-aid reaction that will not get me far, because at one point or another, we will meet again, and we will have to address these issues together.

Strike two is a deeper wound. I'll act like you don't exist again, but I no longer think it's an immature reaction. This is when I start doubting myself. How come I became friends with this person? I'd usually wonder. And now I'm going with the observation that I'm picky with friends, that it doesn't take one conversation for me to become friends with someone, nor a bunch of them about a common interest - that it's more complicated than that, which is perhaps why it takes me a while to find a really good friend, and why I complain that I don't have any. So, how come I became friends with this person? We got along so fine but now it's like we shouldn't have. But I can still give you a chance after a while. I'd probably realize that I cannot afford to lose you. We're good friends now. I've invested this much to not come out of this scarred for life.

And then there's strike three. Now I know that we shouldn't have been friends in the first place. You, as it turns out, weren't worth it. I get treated like a jerk and am expected to play nice in the end? No. So, all ties are cut. Any chances of returning to what was there is practically zero at this point.

That's when I start probing myself harder. Why were my picks so off that time?

And sure, we don't make perfect choices. I can't claim to have done them - I've gone through so many strike twos and strike threes. But when we go to someone and go, "you'll be my friend," a part of you always hopes it stays that way forever. You know you'll have your misunderstandings, but you hope you'll both work it out.

But what you don't know is, when you somehow reach a stage where nothing can be done, you're left deeply scarred. So, perhaps, the best thing to do is to keep yourselves from hitting a third strike - that point when you have to pull yourself away and recognize the holes that the aftermath will bring. Holes that, in my case, I myself drilled there - because I was picky; because I picked those particular people, knowing that things will turn out fine with them around; because it wasn't meant to be.

Too many strike threes for me. That, Jean, is what I meant when I tweeted that word spill last night. Hold me accountable. No more.

Halfway through halfway through

2012-01-08T11:24:00.000+08:00

"Dear friends, family, and just about everyone who loves me: I want a Baby Alive for my 23rd birthday. It's on the 18th of February. Thanks."

"23 na tayo. Wah."

It should be a breakthrough for me. Somebody else is turning 23 at almost the same time as me! I was, after all, always surrounded my people a year older than me, thanks to me skipping a year of pre-school. Sure, I know people who are also the same age as me, if not much younger (looking at you, Inka, Les, Sars...) but here's where my propensity to pull myself down comes in: it still feels like they're older than me. Definitely more mature.

Hazel may want dolls for her birthday, and I may be completely aware that she was born five weeks after I am, but the feeling remains.

"Tapos two years na lang makaka-experience na tayo ng quarter-life crisis," she answered back. "Wah back at you."

"Akala ko eto na yung quarter-life crisis natin?" I answered back. "Humihingi ka na ng dolls eh..."

"Um, um, for collection purposes lang!" she countered. And then, a late realization. "Shiz, oo nga ano..."

I'm turning 23 tomorrow. It would be almost four years since I graduated from college, four years since I entered the labor force, four years since I started making a fool of myself without the concept of "I'm still finding my way through life" protecting me. (Then again, this started way back.)

I'm not exactly sure what I should be doing now. I've made the best of my circumstances. I have what you'd call a steady job, even if I know it's not going to last long and I have to go somewhere else sooner or later. Socially, nothing's really changed. I go out, mostly by myself. I talk to people, and they'd talk back only if they're interested. I make friends, only to turn my back on them. And I'm dealing with it by going on shopping binges at bookstores.

The past year saw my corner of the bookshelf in our home grow. In the past three months alone I got seven books - five in October, one in November, and one last month, my sister's first Christmas gift to me. It's her first year as part of the labor force.

Yesterday I was organizing my old magazines - a big pile of music magazines collected over the past few years, plus a couple of others, mostly men's magazines, to fill my "more substantial read" quota. I don't have use for much of them now - in between conversations with Jeany and incessant listening to 6 Music, I've become a muso, and a terrible one at that - so I've put them all in a plastic box for storage elsewhere.

I realize that that's the sort of thing I should've been doing when I was still in college: make the most of my weekly allowance by buying everything in sight. Sure, I did that before, but not as much as I do now, when I'm earning my own money and, thus, have some financial responsibilities around the house. (I don't have much, but if I can, I do.) After that shopping spree a quarter of a year back I felt a bit guilty for spending so much money. But it felt right when I was doing it, I'd think. I deserve a break after all this, right?

In Hazel's case, it's collecting dolls, possibly staring at it from afar, remembering when she was still young. But I can't possibly speak on her behalf.

I'm writing this after reading the fourth of my seven new books - and it happens to be Andrew Collins' second autobiography, covering his college years, so my perspective is going to be a bit skewed here. He went to college and had the mix just right. He studied, he experienced things, he had fun. Me? I worried my way through college. Worried about the future, worried about the present, and maybe worried about the past even. Same pattern of things when I started working (shoot, bitches for colleagues, a very familiar thing to think, whyyyyy?) and, pretty much, every other time since.

And now I'm compensating for all that I've missed out by buying all these books and magazines and fairly hard-to-find CDs and wallowing in the experience of having an ever-expanding collection of something. Well knowing, of course, that I've still missed out on a bunch of nights out with friends, and perhaps a couple of girlfriends, by worrying about what they'd think if I did push through with these, you know, things.

And Hazel's just collecting dolls, definitely staring at it from afar, remembering when she was still young.

I'm turning 23 tomorrow. And, in case I haven't noticed it before (and I think I have, right, Y2?) I'm in the middle of my own quarter-life crisis.

And I'm worrying about it.

The problem with newspaper columnists getting what they want

2012-01-05T18:00:00.002+08:00

I read the newspaper daily. Or, at least, the days when there's a new newspaper in the house. Of course. I'd like to think of myself as politically-aware, and there's no better way to keep up with things than by reading the newspaper.

Then again, my newspaper reading habits don't exactly suggest that. The first thing I read is the comics. Next, the entertainment section, even if there isn't really much worth reading there. If it's Thursday, I absolutely have to read the food section. On other days I'd probably pass by the other lifestyle sections, except if it's Friday or Saturday, during which I skip the whole thing - fashion's of no use to me, I'm not a teenager anymore, and no, stop being such a pop culture smart ass when you only found out about Adele from me, thank you very much.

And then, when I decide I'm ready to eat breakfast, I take the main section and read it. Again, I might skip most of it - it's either stuff I've already seen on TV, or stuff I'm not interested in - but there are things I have to read. The main stories. Any interesting historical feature. And the opinion columns. Of course, the opinion columns.

Newspapers are supposed to be objective, but that doesn't stop them from publishing opinion sections. That's the only space where they really have a say (ideally) about the rest of the things they're writing about. We disagree with this, but we agree with that, that sort of thing. Thankfully, a newspaper's opinion section isn't limited to one viewpoint: the many columnists there would wreck havoc with their thoughts on certain things (within reason, of course). Or, if they're not exactly commentators, then they'd write observations about things going on.

The idea might go along the lines of "there's something for everyone" - if you like segregating conservative views from progressive ones, maybe - but I see it more as an exercise of explanation. I have opinions of my own. I'm obviously not fond of Noynoy Aquino, but I'm not fond of Gloria Arroyo either. I may or may not disagree with what you're saying, but I'm interested still in why you think that way. I don't expect my opinions to change, but I expect to understand you more. Unless, of course, you make it quite frustrating for me to understand you.

I used to regularly read Conrado de Quiros' column in the Inquirer. His activist background (I think) and his literary flair has led to often eloquent arguments about current events. A few years back, when Arroyo was still in power, I enjoyed reading him rip apart what the then administration was saying and suggesting that they meant the opposite. The downside is, he tends to repeat himself; then again, when the bottom line after nine years is "get Arroyo out" over and over again, you'd understand.

I didn't stop reading his columns when Aquino assumed power, despite knowing that he'll start writing differently from that moment on. His columns passionately supported the now sitting president, the usual rhetoric about him being the Philippines' great hope. Again, I disagree, but I want to see why you think that way.

The past few months have been frustrating, however. I'm not getting the arguments. Most of his columns go a particular route now: mention a current event, connect it to Arroyo, call her pure evil (she isn't pure evil), call Aquino pure goodness (he isn't pure goodness), and then hope that pure evil gets swallowed by some sinkhole. I'm not seeing arguments anymore. I'm seeing putdowns. He's eloquently putting down anybody who's on the other side now.

That's the problem with newspaper columnists getting what they want. When they get the thing they've fought so long for - the things they passionately defended, the things they adamantly hoped for - they start feeling really good about themselves. I did it, or something like that. Then they get blinkered, and suddenly they're not so fun to watch argue. Perhaps that is the downside to being so into something.

I'm not sure, however, what Patricia Evangelista wanted and got. A multimedia empire? I used to read her Sunday column - it even got mentioned on this blog - and then her essays felt preachy, felt very holier-than-thou. Independent journalism should be my thing, but the tone just wards me off.

Perhaps it's me perceiving it that way. This coincided with my friend applying for an internship at Storyline, the ANC documentary series (look, ma, no narrators!) she co-produces. As the story goes, my friend was personally told she doesn't have any TV experience because she worked for an entertainment program beforehand. Never mind it involving going to far areas and looking for stories to tell, nor the fact that said friend's brilliant - she worked for an entertainment program, it's of no use.

Her column, I've completely avoided. I still read de Quiros' from time to time, hoping it's not another blinkered attack on anybody who disagrees with him, perhaps me included. I read the other columns, and I either stay for the arguments, or leave for one. Or maybe I'm reading my opinion columns the wrong way.

The end of December

2011-12-31T10:44:00.000+08:00

Another blog entry about Gwen again. I know, creepy, right?

The idea was, I'm going to bookend 2011 with blog entries about the same thing. So happened that the first blog entry I wrote this year was, well, about Gwen, and the fact that we've been trying to arrange a second meet-up for ages.

Last year she gave me a vague idea of a calendar date: the middle of January. It did not happen.

We almost met up a few months later, but she found herself in a hospital, her check-up taking longer than expected or something. Or, in my words back then, I was stood up.

Now, it's December, and I've long let go of the hope that we'll ever arrange that second meet-up. I will, perhaps, forever owe her a coffee.

We did have a few conversations here and there, mostly around two things: the fact that she's been busy, even if she said back then that she wouldn't be, and the fact that we can't arrange that second meet-up. We'll reaffirm our commitment to finding a date and then forget all about it. Then, a few months later, the same old rigodon.

The thing is, she's the one who got busy. She quit her job and went on some filmmaking lark (not to dismiss anything, but I don't have an idea how else to describe what she's doing exactly). At least, I thought, she's doing something with her life.

Me? I'm stuck at home, working at home, doing the same things I've done for the past three years or so. I'm always the one who's telling friends that I'm free on most weekends if they want to meet. They're the ones who say they miss me, besides, and then, nothing.

I don't think this year's been that good to me. Sure, I got ahead in a few things, but for the most part I was either held back or forced to hit reverse. Sure, perhaps it's my tendency to view the glass as half-empty. It's gotta be, right? There's always something wrong with how I see things. Everybody says that. And even if I counter along the lines of "there isn't anything I can do, really," I still get told that I could do better.

I could do better. I know I could do better. I also know that I cannot do anything else. Even if I wanted to - heavens knows I do, I want to - I cannot do anything else.

And here I am, closing the year the same way I opened it. Writing the same old thoughts about the same old people, or something. I haven't really changed, and everybody else has moved on without me. I wanted to go with them, but they pretty much said no.

And then I gave up.

Crowds

2011-12-30T21:00:00.001+08:00

For some reason I had a good think about all the people I've met over the past few years.

Inevitably, I'm not in touch with most of them. There are just a lot of them. (And I don't have as many "friends" as the others.) But I'd see a few of them now and then - online, of course - and I'd notice that our interests don't exactly match.

Not anymore, perhaps. And sure, it's possible that in all the years that passed we have drifted apart. Nothing new. (Nothing I want to happen, but still, nothing new.) But what if we never really had that much in common in the first place? How come we had friendly relations with each other?

I've always liked to think that I am fairly independent. I have my own set of interests, my own set of preferences, you get my drift. But after another bout of overthinking I realized that my interests aren't exactly my own. For the most part, it's something that I've adopted because my crowd at the time were into it.

I wasn't really much of a film buff until I began hanging out with Jason and Cuyeg more, in part because we worked on our thesis together, and in part because we took more or less the same classes. Jason, particularly, has seen all these artsy films, and I haven't, until I had to for school.

A few years earlier Jason introduced me to Issa, and she hooked me up with my appreciation of the late Rilo Kiley. Sure, this was when I was starting to find my way through the British indie side of things, but a part of me would really like to think of her as the enabler, for lack of a better term. Same with Alyssa and Muse. When I found out she loved the band I sort of use it ti start some conversations with her, or something. (It's not meant to sound that desperate. Trust me.)

With the mostly-forgotten biters, it was a long-dormant love of 80s music and an optimistic mindset - heaven knows how foolish I sounded when talking about romance there, especially in hindsight, now that you've factored in how shitty it all ended.

When I started working... let's just say I became more of a pop-loving kind of guy. I wasn't resisting, but I found myself buying more Glee CDs. Suddenly I was the guy who knew a bit about television. And I didn't watch a lot of television when I was still in college. I even found myself looking through magazine stores for old issues of Elle.

Like my preference for coffee shops other than Starbucks.

Like those conversations I remember having at one point, knowing I've never had those before that point.

So, what exactly is up? I'm not exactly the most independent of persons, I figure - I've always just followed. I've never started anything. I've always just followed so I can have something in common with the people I'm with, the people that I want to be with. It works out, and then people drift apart, naturally. And then you go back and see them talking about things that are vaguely alien to you, and you start wondering what exactly was there.

In my case, perhaps, it was a deep desire to be accepted - which I got, in some cases, momentarily, at least until the charades is over. Some of these things, I've learned to take as my own. Others, they've become battle scars of sorts. The things you can't live without now, for lack of a better term, but are fully aware that it's part of a time you do not want to be part of anymore.

I've been with so many crowds, seen so many interests, that looking back, I don't even know what I really am anymore. I changed too many times to get in. Turns out it wasn't all worth it, of course. Because right now, I'm still alone, and I don't have a crowd to call my own.

Unless, of course, I was the one who started all these crowds, and I was the one who moved away because they changed without me.

These things make me afraid of making new friends.

Kingpin down

2011-12-29T23:49:00.003+08:00

I don't usually write film reviews here - they always go on my still mostly active Multiply page - but I have to write something about Manila Kingpin: The Asiong Salonga Story.

There's always one relatively artsy film when the Metro Manila Film Festival rolls by - one that looks different from all of the other, more unabashedly mainstream releases. This year, it's Jeorge Estregan's retelling of the story of the 1950s gangster, whose story has been immortalized as early as the 1960s. It's an action flick. It's shot completely in black and white. It's a period piece. Never mind the issue about director Tikoy Aguiluz wanting his name off the credits because of certain scenes added without his permission. (He got his request, by the way.) Never mind the fact that this might be Estregan's way of putting his name back into public consciousness, perhaps in preparation for the upcoming elections. (He is governor of Laguna, after all.) The film's got to work, right? Somehow?

Well, it doesn't. It's crap.

To be fair, they had good intentions. Mounting a film that's not exactly mainstream (despite the cast) and not exactly on the fringes (despite the look) in the one date on the Philippine film calendar that's very family-friendly (and that's a euphemism) is a challenge, and they should be applauded for that. There are some good things with the film: Carlo Mendoza's cinematography is thoughtful for the most part, and while the partly-random cast is too old to play young gangsters (the real Salonga died when he was 28) they give the gravitas their roles ask for, especially John Regala and Dennis Padilla. But while watching the two-hour-long flick, I can't help but be totally thrown off. Manila Kingpin is quite messy.

One, the film begins in the middle of the action. We have Asiong being tortured by some other gangster. The usual territory war. We have Asiong exacting his revenge. We have Totoy Golem hearing about the aforementioned attack. Suddenly all of this is happening, and I'm wondering, so what happened before all this? The assumption is, you've seen the Asiong Salonga movies from before (notably the one featuring Joseph Estrada) and you know what happens. My dad knows, as he's seen them. I haven't. There's no inkling of an origin scene, and there are no transitions to certain chapters. It's event after event - either they crammed too much, or they spent too much time showing Asiong Salonga is a Robin Hood type of guy. (ER Ejercito is a Robin Hood type of guy.) It feels clunky at times.

Two, you cannot turn the provincial town of Pagsanjan (in Laguna - but of course!) to the urban district of Tondo. The black-and-white style eases you through this obvious disparity, but you'd expect a film set in Manila's underbelly in the 1950s to look gritty and tight. We get a cinema that's obviously fashioned from an ancestral home, a church that's not in the middle of the market district, and wide spaces that you will never find in that part of Manila at the time. And banana trees. Lots of banana trees. I actually gave up believing it's Manila and decided that I was watching a film student's thesis where location is a bit of an afterthought.

Three, certain facets of the film feel forced in. Asiong's dalliances with the ladies - where did that come from? Sure, it's a given - he is a gangster, a notorious gangster - but I still don't get it. I don't even know what he feels about his wife Fidela (played by Carla Abellana, making the whole idea creepy) and now he's taking off Jaycee Parker's top? The idea of someone from the Liberal Party asking for Asiong's support - do we really need politics in the picture? Even my dad said it was nowhere in the originals. (Is ER running under Noynoy? Nice way of making it that explicit, sir.) The idea of corrupt policemen and corrupt government officials - it's a given, but how does that exactly figure? I can imagine how the production meetings go: "Aha, let's make the police corrupt! They'll understand." I don't even know what the motivations are - things just happen.

Four, every sharp cuss word was cancelled. Phillip Salvador went "putang ina". John Regala went "putang ina". But you'll have to read their lips to know that. It loses the grit the film requires. So much for the R-13 rating.

Finally, the last straw: the scene where Totoy Golem hijacks Asiong Salonga's funeral - and forced a gunfight between his gang and Asiong's - is soundtracked by an orchestral version of Tears for Fears' Mad World. It's 1950s Manila. Where the hell did that effing come from?

Manila Kingpin is more style than substance. They definitely sold the aesthetic, and the fact that it's a period piece, when they could've tightened up the storytelling - focus on one aspect of Asiong's story, like the recent Robin Hood remake with Russell Crowe - and paid more attention to the production. I thought they were perhaps better off creating a whole new story, about a gangster from Pagsanjan who fought corrupt officials and their cohorts. the enemy gang. I would have bought that.

Instead, what we get is a film where the crew decided to throw everything they know to the wall and see what sticks. Some things look good, but everything doesn't make sense together. Like a film student's thesis, really. You get excited trying out all the techniques you learned, the end result looks messy.

Oh, right, Manila Kingpin is a vanity project. Jeorge Estregan shooting guns, fighting for the common good, and making out with Valerie Concepcion on the side. I tried watching the film as just that. A vanity project. And it still fails. I can't quite convince myself that Jeorge still has it. He screams to the heavens after fighting off Ronnie Lazaro's character - those big epiphany moments - and he looks limp. He kisses the young girls (lots of them) and he looks more excited. Not exactly the message you want if you're running for some government position, if that theory is true.

Funny that the film that we assumed would be a bright spot in this year's MMFF turns out to be such a disappointment. Enteng ng Ina Mo actually could be better, even if their merger is very, very forced.

And then I picked up a pregnancy test...

2011-12-26T18:29:00.000+08:00

"Sana magkita na tayo soon!" was Tonet's reply to my second wave of Christmas greetings - on Twitter, mostly for people who I don't have the numbers of, to say the least. For good measure, there was a heart at the end.

I thought, were we that close?

Okay, maybe we were. You know my definition of close on this one: the people I end up confiding in, for some reason. In her case, the peak of our closeness, so to speak, came in a blog entry she wrote almost four years ago, one that took off from an online conversation we had about certain people and certain feelings.

He's only nineteen, but he's very mature for his age. We usually talk about music, but tonight we talked about love.

I remember the first time we "met". I was in an Internet shop. To be exact, the now-gone Netopia branch at the then-drab University Mall. I was answering a question posted on some place I refuse to recall. What are your favorite bands? This was the time when I was discovering Camera Obscura. This was also the time when my PC started acting up, which meant me not being able to listen to my music on iTunes because the library file was in a hard drive whose life force was ebbing away. Rather than hear every track skip all over the place, I decided to listen through another app.

The app then decided to play XTC's Senses Working Overtime a lot. It's one of those songs that I have but never really paid attention to, mostly because my PC tends to play certain songs more than others. I must've heard it before, but I must've been too busy with school projects at the time - it was 2007, after all. But that night, I somehow ended up listening intently to this band I've never heard much of, and enjoying the one song I have of them.

So my answer to that question about favorite bands? Not sure what else I mentioned, but I did mention Camera Obscura, and Athlete, and the fact that I'm "getting into" XTC.

Tonet replied, pointing out that we have the same interests in music, more or less.

Why we ended up talking about love, or whatever that is, I can't really recall. Definitely, at one point, I decided I liked talking to her enough to add her up on YM. When the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan over on the motherland, she more or less took my side. And kept quiet about it. And then we talked a bit more, whenever she has time, at the very least. She doesn't always have time. Running an indie label isn't the sort of thing you give a few hours to.

I actually don't remember why I had her phone number at one point - I definitely never had the chance to use it. And that phone number's definitely dead.

And then, that Christmas message. She hopes we'd meet soon. I hope so too, but I don't really have time to go to gigs. Back then, I had to go home to Cavite and sleep early. Right now, I'm still not a gig person, perhaps to Jeany's consternation. (I've always been more of a radio person, at least until it got mostly crap.)

But what do I do when I do meet her? Get drunk, while perhaps watching a band I haven't heard much of (radio being mostly crap nowadays) but probably will have an interest in, because I try to keep up appearances that much? Maybe. But I've never been drunk ever.

What's a diminumeneweh?

2011-12-24T17:28:00.001+08:00

Here we go again.

This year, I was sending my Christmas text messages while in line at a grocery store. I didn't want to be a Christmas crammer, and we tried our best not to, but when it turned out that we forgot a few things it came to be to drive to the grocery, try to find a good parking slot (nowhere), and brave the aisles to buy the few items I have to buy, and then some. I am, after all, in the grocery, not them.

Before the phone lines get longer than the grocery I'm in, happy holidays! Applause for dropping by in 2011, and fingers crossed you'll hang on in 2012.

The last time I did this, there were 72 people on the receiving end, and only twelve of them replying before the cut-off. Today, I only sent it to 39 people. Just 39 people. I don't know why. I just felt like it. I guess it's how things go. People stay, people go, and people mess up.

That, or I don't have everybody's phone number.

As for the replies?

From the girl who I was close with despite only meeting once: Merry Christmas, Niko!

From the girl who told me a classmate was pregnant: Merry Christmas to you and our family, Niko!

From the girl who everybody thought was a soccer player: Have a blessed Christmas, Henrik! Sana bongga 2012 natin!

From the girl who eased my transition to a Community fan: Season's greetings, sabi ni Shirley. More laughter I can't type here. Merry Christmas!

From the girl whose voice you'll hear virtually everywhere: Thanks Niko! This was preceded by laughter. Was my message funny? Have a great Christmas as well!

From the girl who might've asked me to keep quiet by mistake: Hug! I really feel like a scrooge this Christmas but thank you for being there at random moments!

From the girl who eased my transition to a Community fan: Yes! She was talking about this year's Christmas episode. It's all over this blog entry. Or not.

From the girl who thought Hayley Williams was in Manila: Merry Christmas, Niko! Hope to see you soon. Now that you've mentioned it, we were supposed to meet up years ago. Enjoy and have a wonderful time with your femilyyy!

From the girl with three moles (sorry): Merry Christmas to you too, Niko Batallones! You'll forever be DLSU's infamous Shale.

From the girl who surprisingly replied with her local number despite being in Taiwan: Happy holidays Niko! Let's have a great 2012!

Finally, from the girl who introduced me to Golden Oreos: Happy holidays Niko!

Ten! Not complaining. It's a bigger percentage than last time. But I am hitting diminishing returns, yes? Because we're getting busy and drifting apart and all, yes? And because we're losing track of each other's phone numbers? And because texting is no longer a cool thing? And because I'm sending my text messages a day too early? Because surely later I'll get a bunch of them, and it's going to be too late, kinda.

Not that I'm complaining. Except, perhaps, when my uncle goes "puro tsiks na naman yan, Kuku!" again.

Well, then. Happy holidays to every one of you, whether I've yet to meet you, or I've already decided to disown you or whatever. Maybe next year things will be better for us. Or worse. It has to be balanced, after all.

Another exercise in insecurity

2011-12-19T22:09:00.001+08:00

I had this conversation with Gwen a few months back - maybe a few years back, even; this was the time when she showed more interest in me. Err, when we talked a lot more.

I don't remember exactly how we got there nor why we got there, and I obviously don't remember what exactly was said. But we were talking about that time in a person's life when he feels like breaking all the rules.

"I never went through that stage," I told her.

"I already have," she said. That's not exactly what she said, but as I said, I can't remember specifics. But I'm sure she said something along the lines of, "I'm glad I have already gone through that stage."

There I was, in front of a computer, a 21-year-old talking to a 20-year-old (or was she 19? I'm probably confusing her with someone else) about that time in your life when you do not agree with everything. And getting past that time, and feeling very mature.

I definitely remember squirming. I always felt little compared to everybody else I talked to. I was always surrounded by older people. You know, a year older, because I skipped a level in pre-school. So I always had to look up to them by default. Older people tend to know more, after all.

Little do I realize that I'm doing the same to people younger than me. By my logic, sure, people younger than me should know less than me. They've lived less life than I have. Of course, that is wrong. That is very wrong. Chances are, the younger people I know have experienced more than I have. They've gone through those stages, and I haven't. You know, like Gwen.

It doesn't make for a good feeling, being terribly insecure about yourself, knowing that you're too late for certain things. Or maybe everything.

Today I realize that I'm possibly going through that rebellious stage. At 22, I'm having one of those irrational "I want my own room" thoughts. Seriously. I've always had to share a bedroom with a sibling, which makes me, in a way, a punching bag privacy-wise.

Of course, when you think about it, it is an irrational thought. You'll spend lots of money, for one. And also, nobody likes people with irrational thoughts, no matter how technically correct they are. Nobody wants someone who sets out to break the rules, or something.

People around me must think I'm so crazy. No wonder nobody wants me around.

Thus, I don't know as much as a 21-year-old does.

Like this, really.

I shouldn't have written this, yes?

Drones

2011-12-14T21:17:00.000+08:00

"Masaya, pero nakakapagod."

That's Alvin Elchico on DZMM last night, talking about how reporters like him see political coverage. A texter suggested that the latest circus unfolding on our television screens will have reporters happy. Sure, Elchico said. They will be happy, but they will get really, really tired.

I see what he means. Sure, the closest I have to political coverage is a blog that goes to life during school elections, but there is a thrill in following the campaigns, talking to people, trying to figure out what they really mean when they speak, and being on the pulse about something. When things get more heated than they should (and they have), it gets much more exciting. Seeing two sides outwit each other, and trying to figure out who has the advantage or not? That really puts you on the pulse.

But eventually it proves to be too much. I remember covering the DLSU general elections in 2009 - the one I did from my office - and getting quite cynical about it. When I was still writing about them on the ground, I really felt that they were fighting for a good cause. Now that I was watching from the outside, a recent graduate who's blogging whenever he's got free time in the workplace, it all felt like they were doing what they were doing to prop themselves up. Embellish their CVs, get a good job in a multinational company, that sort. After all, these candidates have been fighting for the same thing for four years, definitely longer. And it's not like they haven't done anything, but they haven't exactly moved on from those causes. If time eventually catches up with them and renders them ineffective, why bother with running?

Someone posted a comment, chiding me for thinking that way. I guess I felt more cynical now that I'm past that stage, supposedly.

Then again, politics is all about power. It's all about getting it, keeping it, and making sure you still have a piece of it when you step away. I know, that sounds cynical. Everybody enters politics with good intentions, you might say. Sure, I agree with you. And you cannot get what you want - whether it's for your gain or everybody's - without having power. You can't get what you want if you can't hold on to power for that long. And you can't get what you want if you leave the fray and see that someone else has virtually undone all that you've done.

Some who have entered politics may have stuck with their guns, but some inevitably succumbed to the game. Politics is addicting, the way The Sims is. You start playing and you get more invested in it. You start watching the news and you get quite affected by it. You start dealing with power and you can't pull yourself away from it. "Masaya, pero nakakapagod."

This week Renato Corona, the chief justice of the Supreme Court, has been impeached. Among other grounds, he was accused of siding with former president Gloria Arroyo in some of their decisions. As the thinking goes, since he was appointed by Arroyo - a particularly controversial one, since he was named as chief justice in May last year, squarely within the ban on executive appointments two months before the end of a president's term - his loyalties lie with her.

Current president Noynoy Aquino has, to put it bluntly, never been that fond of Corona. As president-elect he was against his appointment from the get-go, going as far as having someone else swear him in as president. During the most recent budget deliberations, the judiciary's coffers were slashed by around P2 million, I think - you can say it's the administration's back-to-zero policy, but you can also say it's him pressuring a potentially unfriendly court to cozy up. But tensions have flared in recent weeks, from the Supreme Court's decision to issue a temporary restraining order against the Department of Justice's immigration watch list order against Arroyo and her husband Mike, to Aquino's uncharacteristically hostile speech against Corona in a summit organized to, of all things, foster cooperation between members of the judicial sector.

And then, suddenly, Corona was impeached.

I have nothing against Corona being impeached. By all means, if he has done something wrong, then do so. What I have a problem with, however, is the speed of his impeachment, and the circumstances surrounding it.

When members of Congress attempted to impeach Ombudsman Merceditas Gutierrez - also an Arroyo appointee, and also accused of being biased towards the former administration - it was a long, tedious battle. It's partly because there were two impeachment cases filed against her, and the Supreme Court even had to issue a TRO just to sift through which has more merit, but mostly because they had to figure out if it was sufficient in substance and form. That process happened in the many impeachment attempts against Arroyo.

Corona's impeachment, on the other hand, was definitely fast-tracked. Nothing new there - the impeachment of former president Joseph Estrada was elevated to the Senate in 2000 without a plenary debate, although then speaker Manny Villar insisted there was no need to do so, because the articles of impeachment were signed by 77 representatives, four above the 73 required. But the process of Corona's impeachment is questionable. It has now emerged that members of the majority coalition rushed lawmakers to sign the articles of impeachment, in some cases without letting them read through the documents, relying instead on a definitely condensed slideshow. Thus, the articles did not have to pass through a committee-level hearing; they got their 188 votes in just five hours.

It has also now emerged that the fast-tracked impeachment was because of Noynoy Aquino's wishes. Armed with reports that the Supreme Court will revoke the arrest order against Arroyo, he asked his top men to craft the case quickly. "The majority wanted the impeachment as a show of force to justify their actions," a source told the Inquirer.

The minority obviously has qualms about this: minority leader Edcel Lagman called it the "mother of all blackmails". But some members of the majority were also taken aback: Navotas representative Toby Tiangco quit after disagreeing with their ways, and there are reports that another member of the majority was booted off as chairman of a congressional committee because he did not sign the articles of impeachment.

And that is my problem with the whole thing. As I said earlier, if there are grounds to impeach Corona, fine, impeach him. (He's been impeached on eight counts, most of which are so vague that gathering convincing evidence much be difficult.) But no matter how Malacañang spins the whole thing, the impeachment case is definitely rushed. And not to get rid of a roadblock to reforms, as they'd assert, but to take control of a stop on the road. They can't get the Supreme Court to "cooperate" with them, so they decided to deal with it through other means.

If their main problem was that Corona is a midnight appointee, then why wait so long to boot him out? They waited, so said presidential spokesman Edwin Lacierda, to see if something good will come out - and, predictably, they said that nothing has. More of, they co-existed until the Supreme Court decided to issue the TRO in favor of Arroyo, after which they realized they won't have much of a reason to hang around if their raison d'être could get away. Thus, the "show of force". Hold on to power.

If they believe that Corona favors Arroyo, that he protects the former president, then why just impeach him? Why not impeach all of the justices that she appointed in her nine years in power? Also, can they prove that the Arroyo bloc voted solidly in every case of note? Corona is right - the attack against him is actually an attack against the judiciary's independence. The message the case, and the administration's actions before that, is sending is simple: "either you're with me or against me." To hell with the judiciary's independence. To hell with the system of checks and balances.

And that puts us in dangerous ground. Noynoy Aquino was installed in office with the promise of long-overdue reforms: transparency and accountability, a new culture that will bring change to the country. I believed that his intentions are good. But his actions nowadays suggest that nothing's really happened. It's still about numbers. Still about having every base covered. Still about having more influence than anybody else. Sure, you can argue that it's not his fault - that this whole system is because of the precedents set by previous regimes - but you'd expect Noynoy to rise above it. It's what he's suggested all this time.

Instead, to be able to instigate his wishes - to get what he wants, if you want to flip it - he has resorted to the very things his predecessor, the very person he demonized from the campaign, has done. And maybe beyond it, because Arroyo certainly didn't bully the Supreme Court into submission when she assumed office. Noynoy's intentions are good? Perhaps, perhaps, but he came into office with absolutely no idea on what to do. And so he surrounded himself with people who have more experience, but are definitely part of the old school. And now he's learned those tricks, and he's making the most of those tricks, and he's become good at it, really good at it, much like the people he's antagonized at the beginning.

Not everybody is happy with it. I'm not. Many others aren't. But many others accept what the administration is doing now. It's necessary, they say, to get us the reforms we all need. What he's doing is much more tolerable than the atrocities Arroyo has done. I read these essays and columns, I listen to these arguments, and I can't help but think they're just kissing ass. Hoping that it will lead to the best, to the point of being delusional about it. Noynoy can do no wrong. He's the son of Cory Aquino. He is the child of People Power. He does not know how to lie. He does not know how to cheat. He does not know how to do anything. We have a potential despot - I may be exaggerating, but bullying the judiciary into submission is never a good sign - and people are going, he's all right.

We have drones, and that is perhaps the worst thing of all. They want a piece of the dream, whether it's a better country - I cannot begrudge you for that - or a slice of the pie, a bigger slice of the pie. So you overlook the flaws to get there. Or, you perpetrate the flaws.

Politics. It's all about power. It's about getting power. Maintaining power. Making sure you still have power when you step away. No matter how short or how long you stay in the fray, you become invested. It consumes you, whatever that means. Much like a video game, really. It's time for a meeting, and you're still playing it.

The past few weeks is a wake-up call for me. It's no longer time to believe that Noynoy Aquino's intentions are good. What we have is a vindictive president who's drunk with power. He's become the monster he said he'll never be. And still thinks he isn't, probably, because of the drones around him. And the next few months is going to be interesting, just to see who wins, who loses, and how everybody gets back. Again, politics. You become invested. You cannot look away.

Masaya, pero nakakapagod.

Devils

2011-12-11T21:25:00.001+08:00

I'm done with my Christmas shopping, but not everybody else is. My sister's just getting started, and since she's busy at work lately she only has the weekends to do her shopping. Which meant I have to do the driving.

I didn't really mind. I had the itching to leave home anyway - you know, change the scenery, distract myself and all - plus the fact that I had to pick up a couple magazines along the way. But I spent most of my time with my sister at Rustan's, going through the toy section, trying to pick out gifts for our little cousins.

It's a setup we barely stumbled into. I didn't think of giving gifts for my cousins. She didn't think of giving gifts for our grandparents. She's not taking credit for my gifts, and I'm taking credit for hers, although we're definitely sharing credit on a gift we're giving to the daughter of one of my dad's colleagues - just so freaking adorable. But, since I was around and I felt like proving that I've done Christmas shopping for four years now, I helped out.

I didn't really help out. My sister found this Happy Feet Two plushie, and we chose it over the cheaper stuffed bear because I thought it was too Dickensian. (You know kids nowadays.) We had a harder time looking for gifts for our two younger cousins, Izaak (heretofore known as Tak) and KC (heretofore known as Piching).

Tak's a big Cars fan - he'd watch the movie every time it comes on the TV, and he really finds Lightning McQueen cool - so getting a Cars toy is a no-brainer. Well, except for the fact that there were no more Lightning McQueen toys. "Sold out na po," the sales guy told my sister, just as I saw this assemble-your-own-Lightning-McQueen-statue kit being sold. Nah.

Piching was a harder proposition, because she's the quintessential girly girl. Fashion accessories, make-up, and at six (or seven) years old? It's scaring me a bit, because I don't remember my sister going through that phase. We did see some items my cousin might be interested in, but it's way beyond my sister's budget.

We didn't really do that much shopping.

Then again, this isn't about our shopping. (Well, my sister's shopping.) I was in a toy store. On a weekend. And I was surrounded by kids.

You know how kids are with toy stores, right? Now, I definitely went through that phase. Toy Kingdom at SM Southmall. A ten-year-old's paradise. I was going through a Micro Machines phase and got excited whenever I saw a whole aisle of the toys. Boxes of gas stations and truck stops and auto repair emporiums (or is it emporia?), big boxes, and those small cars, only a few of them. Next thing I know, I've strayed from my parents, I've gotten lost in the mall, and I was crying in the corridor. Customer service played the role of Jessica Soho.

And up to now, I still get that tingling sensation whenever I'm in a toy store. Sure, I'm rarely there nowadays - I don't really have to go there anymore - but whenever I there, and see an interesting toy, I still quietly go "oooh, that's a really good toy!" And I'm not referring to action figures. They're boring. The kid in me who wanted to be an architect when he grows up still gets excited over those building sets and cars.

Fine, I get a bit excited over stuffed toys too, because I never had those when I was a kid. Asthma.

So here I am, talking to my sister about what toy she should pick up. Maybe that "Dickensian" argument I mentioned earlier. We probably were in the middle of the small aisle or something. We were surrounded by kids, English-speaking ones, accompanied by their nannies or their parents, understandably excited over whatever they're seeing, and silently wishing (or not) that they get that exact toy for Christmas.

Then comes this boy, probably eleven, a little fat, barging in, swiping me with one arm - I would say "pushing me with one arm" to be clearer, but that isn't accurate - and going, "excuse meeeee!" He swiftly walks away, that self-entitled brat.

Kids nowadays. They become devils when confronted by the toy store. Gone are the times when we'd see toy advertisements on Just for Kids on ABS-CBN and make a mental note to look for it in the toy store, silently. (Does anyone remember that show? Saturday mornings with that lady whose name slips me at the moment? That lady who's probably based in Forbes Park? Do I even have that show's name right?) Now, they'd see the same ads on Cartoon Network and push their parents to the toy store, pronto. So much for being nice for Santa all year.

Or maybe, like in most instances, I wasn't like most kids. Or maybe I am like them. Oh, I don't want that thought.

I don't know where we are going now

2011-12-07T21:07:00.001+08:00

For anybody who lives in what I'd like to call "further south" - you know, folks like me - Daang Hari is a bit of a godsend. It used to be that, to get to the Alabang area, we had to drive westward to the other side of Bacoor, then northward through Las Piñas, then eastward towards your destination. Now we just turn left and go straight.

In the early days a significant chunk of the road was just two lanes wide - more an issue of land rights, if anything. You'd go past Ayala Southvale (or, in our case, get out of it), drive a quarter of a kilometer, and then see the four-lane road, complete with center island, shrink to a two-lane side road sitting beside the perimeter fence of Ayala Alabang. It would go for a kilometer or so before opening up again. Just a little quirk.

In recent years - maybe five years back, I can't recall - the road was expanded. You used to go straight to the two-lane part; now you turn slightly to the left and it remains a four-lane road, at least until the very end, when you return to the two-lane part. (I know, it sounds confusing, but there is no good way of describing this in words alone. Call me ridiculous, but I'm getting to something here.) Anyway, the two-lane part, now just a quarter of a kilometer long, stayed because there is a house at the point where the road expands. Again, I assume it's more an issue of land right. Who'd want their house be replaced by a road anyway?

This setup proved to be a pain in the ass, especially recently. Every morning there's be a big traffic jam at the point where the road shrinks back to two lanes - and while it's always been an issue, it's gotten worse now that you have to turn slightly to the right rather than just veer in that direction. Add to that the usual inconsiderate drivers and the fact that the two-lane part, made of asphalt, gets crinkly after a bad downpour, and you have hell for the impatient.

Thankfully that problem's going to end soon, it seems. The road is being widened again, and this time, the last two-lane part is going to get two extra lanes. The house at the bottleneck has given way. I felt a little bad about it.

That meant a slightly more confusing set-up traffic-wise, at least while the roadworks are on. I'm seeing extra traffic enforcers (and ones that are actually doing something) in the usual choke points, complete with glow sticks. Construction, after all, is going on all day and night. But it is still a choke point, especially during the rush hour - you'd be stuck there for a good twenty minutes. So, tonight, they did something unusual; they opened the old two-lane road, the one we all used to go to, the one beside the Ayala Alabang walls.

It's been closed for years. Too much grass on one side, and even some old flood water (is there such a thing?) in the middle. No lights, since they moved them to the new four-lane road. All vehicles headed north were sent there; we all ended up occupying just one lane because of all the obstacles.

Yep, I was one of the drivers. I was going to pick up my brother from school, since my parents had too many Christmas parties to attend. I knew something was up when, at six in the evening, I was stuck in traffic where I wasn't supposed to be: the intersection between Daang Hari and Ayala Southvale Drive. And I was there for twenty minutes. That usually happens a kilometer ahead from where I am.

I had my iPod with me. I decided to plug it into the car. And I started singing.

You know that feeling? You're driving in an empty road, you have the radio up, a good song comes on, and you start singing along to it? And then you imagine yourself doing just that while in a television commercial, with multiply dramatic camera angles? Only I was stuck in traffic, and there was nothing dramatic about it.

But my iPod remained on, and it was almost an hour later when I had my empty road. Also at the Daang Hari, only on the opposite direction, as empty as the other side was jampacked. I wasn't singing anymore, though, since my brother was there and I know I'd look stupid and maybe get some "what the hell?" looks. But you can't stop it. You're driving. You're the driver. You own the car at the moment. Thankfully, there is a difference between mouthing the lyrics to the song, and singing without a sound.

The Stereophonics' Dakota came on, and as I sang silently, or whatever it's called, I realized I was singing the hell out of it. Or whatever. I was feeling it. Really feeling it. More than usual. Driving on an empty road, spilling my heart out... you get the idea.

And there really was something worth spilling, I thought.

Checkered

2011-12-04T21:05:00.001+08:00

"Gusto mo bang ibili na kita ng polo?" my mom asked me a couple of days ago.

"Hindi, ako na," I replied.

She and my dad were headed to Greenhills to do some more Christmas shopping. I was supposed to go with them, planning to buy a laptop, but schedules moved around. Now, I could go with them just to experience Greenhills again - the only time I was there was when I was... I don't remember. But I was so young. And I felt so hot and bored.

I could've taken up on her offer, for her to pick a new top for me, but lately I wanted to be the one doing my own purchases. I want to be able to see things for myself before I commit my own money to it. That's why I didn't have my dad buy me a laptop in Singapore. That's why I took a while to buy myself a laptop in the first place. For a year, maybe two, I went around doing ocular inspections (heh, thesis) in many computer stores looking at the same things over and over.

Somehow the conversation shifted towards my personal style. My mom said she knows how I dress - not that it's a bad thing; she's just convincing me to trust her about the while I'll-buy-your-outfit thing. And then she'd define my style in a couple bullet points: my preference for earth tones, and my conservative perspective when it comes to today's trends. "Kung pumili ka sa uso eh 'yung pinaka-conservative," she said. I forgot what she said exactly, but her point was, I don't tend to choose stuff that screams cool, thus my outfits tend to look more in vogue longer.

Or, as I'd define it, I don't really follow trends.

Mostly because I think I'll never look good wearing whatever's in at the moment. Partly because I'm not really good with knowing what's in - this is going to ruin my chances of working in a magazine, but I'll admit to being, as Dee described once, "not street enough". Partly because I don't get the point of following trends. That's a sure way of making me spend more. Statement shirts become popular (like they did when I was in college), so I'd plunk all my money on buying ten such shirts. Soon enough, they're so five minutes ago.

It goes for everything, really. I'd like to think that I don't decide to try certain things out because everybody is latching on to it. Sure, I tried frozen yogurt, but I wasn't crazy for it like the back row did. ("Red Mango tayo, tara!" ad infinitum.) Suddenly that's gone out of fashion, and milk tea has. People go crazy over milk tea. People form long lines just to get milk tea. And here I am, going, "it's essentially Chowking's nai cha, so why buy elsewhere? And why are there no lines in Chowking, but there are lines in Gong Cha?"

"Kasi... Chowking," Eena answered.

"Stupid marketing people," I said. "I get what they do, but people are acting stupid over the same thing. I sound old."

"You sound... hmm. Jaded. Try it first?"

Today, I went top-hunting. The plan was to get something at the Gap, since I've always wanted to have one of their tops. I know, my dad told me that it's not the fancy brand people think it is - it's the American Bench, in his words - but I really just wanted to try it out. Also, I went window-shopping there once and I liked what I saw. And, at least, there's a chance I can wear those items, unlike when I went window-shopping at Topman.

Of course, the catch is, it's expensive. It's imported. And it's not made in China. (Funny seeing two mostly identical shirts made in two different countries.) I went as far as fitting myself - I'm a large, and their large isn't ridiculously small like Topman's - only to think twice, because I am close to spending two thousand bucks on a polo shirt. Just a polo shirt.

"Punta ka sa Bench o Penshoppe," my mom suggested.

Well duh, Niko. So I went to Penshoppe and found my way to the men's section, not-so-clearly marked by the photos of Ed Westwick decorating the racks. Most of the items were checkered.

Well, more of plaid, really. Ahh, this is going to confuse me again like it did the first time. You know, when I wrote a whole blog entry about Krizzie wearing a checkered shirt. Plaid? What exactly do you call it? See what I mean?

I've long decided that checkered shirts - plaid shirts, whatever - will never work on me. It's too busy. Too many things going on. Also, it screams "cool". Well, it screams "laid back" more, and I'm definitely not laid back. But it definitely screams "trend". You see young kids in malls wearing checkered shirts. You know, those young kids that watch movies with their circle of friends, before heading to the arcade to play the same old games. I saw a guy fitting one such checkered polo in front of a mirror, while a girl - I assume his girlfriend - dusted off his shoulders. I knew I had to go to Bench.

More of the same. And a long line to boot.

A few days ago Claud tweeted about building blocks she found at Muji, that upscale store along High Street. I replied my usual "oooh" reply, partly because I was trying to make conversation, but mostly because I just came from Muji a few weeks ago - did some Christmas shopping there - and was amazed by the whole thing. It's an upscale store. The newspapers blabbed on about it. It's Japanese, it's supposed to be posh, and it's supposed to be expensive - but I went there and I saw some polo shirts and they're quite affordable. I mean almost half as cheaper as the polo shirt I was thinking of buying at the Gap.

"They're also selling Matryoshka dolls and a bunch of bowling pin-like sumo wrestlers. All cute. All expensive."

"And all destined to be desk displays. Now I've thought of it, Muji is so for the Monocle crowd."

Claud and I haven't talked that much when we were both still in La Salle, but we've talked a bit (online) after graduation. I know she's the designer type. We had conversations about fonts. I'm not uncomfortable because I'm a (bit of a) (really) frustrated graphic designer. We talked about how a local magazine's trying so badly to be a Monocle rip-off - you know Monocle, that magazine from Tyler Brulé with five different paper stocks and all these stories about interesting people and interesting things... if it fits their vision of a wonderful world.

I bought it twice (it's ridiculously expensive) hoping to read interesting stuff, but half the magazine feels snobbish. Or maybe that's not the better word. There's definitely an air of "oh, if only we went back to the basics" in everything they write. All this talk about handmade furniture and artisan markets and drama on the radio. A sneering attitude of sorts over worldwide chains. Definitely a sneering attitude towards countries that aren't in Europe, or isn't Japan, or isn't vaguely rich. I don't know. "All dishes prepared by the club use fruit and vegetables from the gardens dotted around the property," says one feature about the perfect "urban club". You go, "that sounds good," and then you go, "I don't think anybody can do that at the moment."

Anyway, my point is, the "Monocle crowd" - the people who are surrounded by luxury, the people who have the money to get what they want, or the "hipster crowd", as Jeany and I were forced to call them - they tend to want things simpler. Bikes. Art galleries. Coffees. The magazine is a strong believer in print, and recently, radio. (Yes, I've been listening. I need good stories. And then I make those faces again.) But to propagate that message, they have to charge more. Same for the Gap and its lack of screaming checkered tops. Same for Muji. Well, they're not that expensive, but it's posh because it's Japanese and it's got only one branch in Manila and it prides itself in being more about function than form.

"Which is mostly a good thing, I guess," Claud said. Back to the conversation, yes. "Unless you're not a fan of the elite?"

"I bought a Christmas gift there, so I'm not complaining," I answered. "The Monocle types can get it right, but they can be so decadent, though."

"Very much. Also a part of the charm, I guess. Not being that, they wouldn't seem so appealing, methinks." And then she shows me this die that decides for you - this won't be a good explanation - what good little gesture you'll do today. A wooden die that costs a lot.

"But Muji has the balance," I said. "I even thought of buying something there myself - no mean feat for a place I randomly entered."

"Yep, the balance: high cost for all that simplicity."

Which brings me back to the Gap. I was eyeing this striped collared shirt. It doesn't scream striped; more of small lines, really. Would've gone for white and black, but it hurt my eyes when I stared at it. (I stared at it so I know if it looks good on me.) After going through all the checkered outfits at Penshoppe and Bench, and later, Esprit, I went back to the Gap to buy my second option: a similar shirt, only in green and something that looks like green, but not green, and not blue. Two thousand bucks down.

When I wore it an hour ago, I felt good about it. It does look good on me. It doesn't scream. And on top of that, my mom thinks I made a good pick. Earth tones, just as she outlined.

Slow motion daybreak

2011-11-30T17:52:00.001+08:00

Have you ever experienced driving in the early hours and seeing the day literally start?

I remember when we went to Baguio last month. We left at four in the morning. Pitch dark outside, obviously. I was the one seated on the passenger seat, the guy assigned to see if there are incoming vehicles in alien roads, the guy with the sense of direction, even if I'm not entirely familiar with the roads leading to our destination.

We were on the NLEX at five in the morning. Still pitch dark outside, except for the lights along the straight highway. But slowly the sky turned to dark blue. Lighter and lighter shades of blue, soon enough, and then the stars give way to the clouds, and the next thing you know, it's daytime. The sun isn't that high yet, but the skies already tell you to wake up. Or, in our case, that it's time for breakfast. A stopover beckoned.

Same thing happened yesterday. My dad took an early flight to Singapore - business trip - and I accompanied him, because I'll be driving the car back home. We left just before five. The trip is much shorter, obviously - we were at the airport before six - but apart from the fact that the roads are definitely not straight, the skies were still mesmerizing. Blue slowly creeps in, and the next thing you know, you can turn off your headlights. It's daytime. Time for breakfast. Or, in my case, a stop at the nearest gas station for a toilet break.

Of course it's not the sort of thing you really notice. I did not notice this in all my early mornings when I was a kid, certainly not during the time when I woke up really early - three in the morning, unprovoked by an alarm - and decided to watch morning news shows just for the kick of it. And you definitely don't notice it when you drive. But when you're in the passenger's seat, it all makes sense.

The only exception was yesterday. We arrived at the airport before six (I did say that before, I know) and the skies aren't exactly bright yet. Call it a side effect of the Christmas season. I kissed my dad goodbye and took the driver's seat. Drove out of the departure area, tried to find my way to the Skyway, hoped that our E-Pass still had credit. I found my way, and I had the money to pay for the toll. I went up the on-ramp and I saw the sky slowly get there, and I was amazed for a split-second. Else I would've crashed.

And then the radio station I was listening to ended its automated overnight programming. Those chatty breakfast shows again. I wouldn't mind, but the guy started talking about Florence Welch covering a Drake song.

"I lost all respect for her," the fucking snob said.

I was peeved, but I wasn't surprised, since he's the supposed Filipino who insists on mispronouncing "Quezon City" as "Kwey-zahn City" just to sound American and cool. I switched stations.

The day has begun, indeed.

The late bloomer

2011-11-27T21:06:00.001+08:00

I remember this distinctly. It was around ten, maybe nine years ago. I was in my parents' bedroom. I curled up to my dad and asked him to buy me a laptop.

I remember this distinctly because of the way he rebuffed me. "Laugh-top, gusto mo?" he quipped.

Obviously he's joking, but you know that when he jokes like that, he's definitely saying no. And for good reason: I didn't really have anything to do with a laptop yet. Not as a 12-year-old self-described computer geek - that's questionable now, in light of recent events - who only wants a laptop so he'd look cool.

Eventually I'd have a good reason to use a laptop. You know, school projects and stuff. Especially when I entered college - you're swamped with papers and proposals left and right. And, as it turns out, a means to talk to people. This was when Friendster was slowly waning in influence, Facebook was gaining speed, and everybody was still on YM. I was late in joining all but one of them. I survived, more or less, in ignorance.

I would've asked my dad to buy me a laptop again, but I didn't. I don't exactly know why. I must've figured that the computer at home was enough for me. Heck, I survived three years of college (and my blossoming interest in British music) with just a dial-up connection. Imagine listening to the BBC in a dial-up connection. Then again, I did spend a lot of time (and money) at Internet shops.

I know, that paragraph sounded a bit like Shamcey Supsup's "my mom didn't buy me a laptop when I was in college" story.

Anyway, I also survived not having a laptop in the three years after I graduated. Looking back, I absolutely don't know what is wrong with me.

I finally bought myself a laptop.

Somehow I decided that this year is going to be the year that I buy myself a laptop. (Then again, I said this many years before.) I've been earning money for three years, after all - the last year providing a bittersweet boost - and, knowing that no matter how much money I plow into upgrading my home PC, it will collapse under the weight of my constant use, I decided to get myself something that I'll definitely use.

I did dilly-dally a bit, though. I could've picked up the gadget any time this year, because I had the money (or, better yet, I had the credit card) to pay for it anyway. But I spent the whole year canvassing. More of, eight months of doing nothing, two months of thinking about it, and a few hours actually looking at prices. Imagine me at a computer shop, making sense of all the technical specifications (and I could, since I've been upgrading the home PC for a while now) and trying to avoid all of the eager salesmen.

Yesterday, I knew I finally had to entertain those salesmen. Today, I'm typing this blog entry in my very own laptop. My very first laptop. Finally. I know, I'm a bit of a late bloomer.

Monsters in the system

2011-11-24T17:51:00.001+08:00

Here's the thing.

All I want is to relate to you.

All I want is to be part of the gang. Isn't it too much to ask?

And they say all I have to do is to reach out. I'm no stranger to this. I have friends of my own. We talk whenever we have time. Whenever we have time, we talk a lot, about anything and everything we can talk about.

But at the moment, this whole thing is frustrating me. The whole system is frustrating me. If all I have to do is to reach out, then how come I'm not getting anything? We'd nod politely, we'd have small talk in the pantry, and whenever I come up to you and ask something, you respond with a mumble and nothing more. What, did I do anything wrong? Am I being a bitch? Because if ever, I'd love to apologize, but that's just how things are here. You know, the system. When you mess up, you get punished, or something like it. But really, I'm sorry. Now, can you give me more than a polite nod? Any nod? No?

All I want is to be part of the gang. Maybe it is too much to ask. And you'd probably say, like you told me before, "don't you have anything to do tonight?" I would, but that is the problem. I have friends of my own, but they don't have the time for me anymore. I don't know. If they were really my friends they'd understand that I'm still thinking of them, I really am - it's just that, well, there are more important things at the moment. And they have the gall to point the finger at me, say I messed up and all. When you mess up, you get punished, or something like it. But I didn't mess up. I do not deserve to be punished.

Well, I'd like to think we're still friends. Nobody's really burned any bridges yet, anyway. Maybe they're just cooling off or something. Maybe they don't have the time. Maybe soon they'll drop me a line, go, "let's talk?" and we'll meet somewhere and talk a lot and stuff.

But while they don't follow through, I'll do the hard work. I'll be the one reaching out. It's supposed to work. It should work. All I want is to be part of the gang. Your gang. At the end of the day I want to talk to someone about my worries and problems. Or maybe about the funny things, I don't know. Whatever. This is how it's supposed to work. I reach out, and you respond. And we make something together. That's how the system works.

And right now, it's failing me.

One hundred days in one hundred forty episodes

2011-11-21T17:22:00.001+08:00

Three reasons why I decided to watch ABS-CBN's 100 Days to Heaven.

One, the main premise caught my attention, unusually for a local drama. By now you know the drill: a successful yet ruthless businesswoman is killed in a bomb explosion, and because of her many sins she is sent to hell. She begs for one more chance, and she is brought back to earth as a child. It's not an original concept, but it's not one that's done a lot on local television, like I'd know, because I don't watch a lot of local television.

Two, Coney Reyes plays that ruthless businesswoman. I wasn't really a big fan of hers - I remember Coney Reyes on Camera on Saturday afternoons, but only as a cue that Eat... Bulaga! is over. (Also, this opening sequence.) I thought I'd watch her act this time.

Three, I had something to review. Not that anybody would read, but, you know, I don't watch a lot of local television and I thought it'd be interesting to write about it.

That review never materialized. I was planning to give a show a week before deciding whether I'll stick with it or not. That one week ended up being two weeks, then three weeks, then... I was watching. It became something to look forward to, because it wasn't like most of the other soaps out there. (And it is on ABS-CBN. By rule, I never watch any of GMA's soaps because they're mostly trying so hard to be cool it looks bad.) The pitch was good. Xyriel Manabat was proving why she's infinitely better than Jillian Ward. And, also, the title itself suggests it won't drag on forever - something local soaps are guilty off. One hundred days, and that's it.

Of course, I knew the show won't last for 100 days flat. It's a hundred days within the universe of the show; the first episode was all about Anna Manalastas' back story, and the real hundred days didn't start until the next episode; and knowing local soaps and its penchant for melodrama, nobody would dare speed things up. But it started things off quite nicely. Jodi Sta. Maria's portrayal of con (wo)man Sophia Delgado was nuanced. It was also nice to see Smokey Manaloto again - I haven't seen him since Home Along da Riles ages ago - and it was interesting seeing Dominic Ochoa be someone other than the third party. In fact, the only thing that ruined the show for me, I think, was Jewel Mische's hysterical methods.

The problem came with my expectations. As the weeks passed by I slowly sucked my family into watching the show. We were enjoying it (and were being impressed by how Xyriel didn't sound like a smartass while playing back-on-earth Anna) and we looked forward to what will happen next. But me, I've been covering American television for a while now, so I can't help but predict how things will go for 100 Days to Heaven. Who had Anna killed? I said it's Miranda; I was correct. Is Jessica just pretending to be Anna's distant cousin? I said yes; apparently she isn't. Is Sophia Anna's long-lost daughter? I said, well, duh. And, well, duh.

Not that it detracted from my viewing. I knew some twists were coming but I always knew something else will happen. And most of the time they did. But then the show started to forget a few things and - as expected with every other local soap, but not this one - it dragged.

The pilot established Anna's back story, and most importantly, introduced us to some of the people who she aggrieved - the very people she has to go back to within those hundred days, the very people who she has to do right now. And those people have been people who she directly dealt with. Now, at one point, the show featured Maricar Reyes, as the daughter of a man who made a concept for a doll, tried to pitch it to Anna's company, and was promptly turned away - only for his concept to be used, and successfully at that. All he wanted was royalty payments - an unusually large amount - and he wasn't given that. So, daughter gets angry, especially after father gets injured in a house fire that she caused, because she was encouraged to play with electrical stuff because of what happened to him... yeah, I know, it's that tedious. And I haven't talked about how she pretended to be a ghost to avenge her father's bad luck.

The producers probably also found it tedious, so the story ended after half a week.

The idea was, Anna's little acts - the acts she thought were right before - had a ripple effect on many people. But that meant long flashback-based sequences explaining what happened before. And that dragged.

At one point it seemed the show was forgetting the "mythology" it established in the pilot with all these "cases of the week" episodes. So where's the child Anna gave up? And then, in the middle of the series, they had these myth-heavy episodes: the reveal that Sophia is the child, the reveal that Miranda had Anna killed... those were exciting times. Movement! And then, we didn't hear anything about it (apart from Sophia and Anna's very-not-subtle conversations about mothers and daughters).

And then, as the series neared its end and the death count started to go up, the flashbacks appeared too often. So Sophia's little brother, Kevin, died of injuries sustained from an accident, complicated by this rare blood disease I never got the name of. Cue her, and us, remembering everything. Then Anna does the same. Andres does the same. Bruce does the same. Jopet does the same. Two episodes of flashbacks.

100 Days to Heaven ultimately fell victim to the syndrome afflicting almost all the local soaps: a heavy reliance on sentimentalism, the propensity to drag everything out to milk all the drama that can be milked, and of course, those out-of-nowhere makes-no-sense-at-all twists. Sophia entering this angry phase against Anna when she found out the truth about her identity? It was too much.

So, when it was announced that Xyriel will be appearing in a new Christmas-themed drama, Ikaw Ay Pag-Ibig, I breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, the show will be over. I knew the show will end on a happy note - Anna will succeed in her mission, she will reunite happily with Sophia, and she'll go up to heaven. Whatever happens in between becomes irrelevant at that point (not helped by the fact that the "next on..." segments spoiled a lot) and I kinda fast-forwarded my way through Friday night's (Lost-like, judging from the Tagabantay/Tagasundo face-off that felt like Jacob and The Man In Black) finale. Anna's up in heaven. Sophia sees an Anna look-a-like on earth. And then? It was a satisfying end, but only because we all saw it coming. And also because I saw Fatzi's face in the final end credits.

By that time we also got tired of watching the show. I, for one, can only speculate on what will happen for so much. It will get painfully obvious, and the show's frequent use of the theme song for every emotional moment was grating. ("Mahiwaga ang buhay ng tao...") But then again, we're in the upper middle class, we're a media-savvy family, and to boot, I watch American television for a living. We are not who this show is catering for. This show is not for people who are used to watching hour-long weekly series. This show is for people who don't change channels throughout the day. I took a chance watching it, and I was pretty happy with it, but it ended up being like all the rest. It could definitely be better. It must definitely be better.

Will I watch Ikaw Ay Pag-Ibig? I'm not sure. Watching 100 Days to Heaven got tiring in the end. Probably because I was thinking too much.

War of hearts and minds

2011-11-15T21:25:00.001+08:00

As I write this, former president Gloria Arroyo is at the departure area at the NAIA, not allowed to board her flight to Singapore.

Justice secretary Leila de Lima has said that she will, pretty much, not implement the Supreme Court's temporary restraining order issued against a travel ban she has issued against Arroyo and her husband. They haven't received a copy of the TRO, she says, so she has no choice but to keep the ban.

Arroyo's lawyers have continually insisted that they're not just fighting for the Arroyos' right to move freely, but for every Filipino's right to move freely. And besides, they say, PGMA needs urgent medical attention. Her neck is getting worse. She needs to see specialists in Singapore. The best medical attention she can get, Mike Arroyo said.

The Bureau of Immigration have just said no. No, they cannot leave. They don't have a hard copy of the court order, thus they cannot do anything. Just following orders from the bosses.

The Arroyos' lawyers insist that the order is illegal, but they cannot do anything. Noynoy's administration is in the mood to piss people off, Raul Lambino suggests. Another, Ferdinand Topacio, just said Noynoy Aquino's government is useless because it has no compassion. That it is cruel because it has no compassion. Mike Arroyo, just now, screamed injustice. No conscience from the current administration. I think some even mentioned Noynoy's connections with the controversial Hacienda Luisita.

Presidential spokesman Edwin Lacierda has gone as far as saying that the Arroyos are gunning for public sympathy by staging "high drama" at the airport.

Arroyo arrived at the airport at roughly half past eight, swarmed by the media, and by security. She's not wearing her metal brace, but she has neck support and a surgical mask. Her guardians appealed to the crowd. "Maawa kayo sa kanya!" they said, as she tried to sit on her wheelchair.

As all that is going on, stranded passengers are angered by the fact that they cannot check in to their respective flights. These folks are supposed to have one side's support or the other. "Tanginang Gloria yan, tatakas-takas." "Tanginang Noynoy yan, ayaw pang paalisin."

This confrontation, this war for hearts and minds, will never end. Never favorably, for anyone. I'm watching this all unfold and all I'm thinking is that saying. Shit hits the fan.

Elevens

2011-11-11T18:22:00.001+08:00

Today is supposedly a special day.

11/11/11, if you'd allow me to break format. Three elevens in a row looks interesting in a calendar. Also, I think, it's supposedly a lucky thing, although both scientists and numerologists say there's nothing really special with today. So, perhaps, the thought that today is a conspicuous date to launch new products or get married or just wish for something good to happen is a human thing. Six ones. One, meaning the best. And to those who were suckered into buying The Secret, or at least subscribe to the law of attraction, thinking of positive things will lead to positive things. More so today, because there are six ones.

Me? I've never been the most optimistic being (and I probably never will) but, at the start of the year, I took note of the fact that this date will come. People did make a big deal out of 11 January because there are five ones. 1/11/11, if you'd allow me to break format again. I thought, there's a better date to get crazy about wishing. That was me being a smartass. The day arrived and everybody is going, "make a wish!" and I can't be bothered.

It is, after all, an ordinary day. There's no special holiday marking the occasion, unless you're doing Veteran's Day where you are, in which case it's complete coincidence. There's no large gathering outside with placards full of elevens. I'm still working. In fact, I'm more swamped than usual. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, even, because my sister left our bedroom door open, meaning I woke up to the morning news shows. Today, somehow, is just not that kind of day.

I did wait for 11.11 to strike, and only so I can post a screen shot of my computer's clock giving me six elevens. Twelve ones. Played a Haley Reinhart song while I'm at it.

"Make a wish," everybody said when the clock struck.

Am I really missing something here?

I, naturally, got annoyed. It's my tendency to get really affected when people decide to do things together, things that I said I won't do because it doesn't mean much to me anyway. What's the point of wishing on this particular day? Can't you do it in any other day? You can do it any other day. The law of attraction isn't fickle with time, unless that's actually what The Secret says. And everybody's doing it. And I said I won't. And everybody's still doing it, which is like saying, "Niko, you're missing out!" And I get annoyed, because nobody explains it to me. Then again, they know I wouldn't pay attention, so why bother, right?

I would, actually. Not that it'd compel me to follow their footsteps, but I'd listen, unless you're talking about something I'm a hardened cynic about.

It's been a while since I talked to Gwen. She's been up to stuff. So much stuff. To the point that, somehow, she decided to change her Twitter handle. That sort of thing says "this is the new me" a lot. I talked to her yesterday, and only because I saw her change her handle, (and only because Twitter's got new stalker-y features,) and definitely because that move somehow made me feel sad.

"Should I reintroduce myself?" I said.

I don't make a lot of friends. I'd like to think I do, but there is such a thing as a hierarchy, and I've been assuming (pretty much correctly) that I've always been at the lowest rung. Nobody calls me up or anything. I won't get any text messages for five days straight, and I wonder why I still have a mobile phone. But there are a few people who will make me feel special, which I will reciprocate, and which will lead to stronger-than-expected friendships. Gwen is one of those people, at least until she got busy.

"Why are you sad about this?" she replied.

"It's like we're acquaintances again," I said. "I click on 'friendly' and I see 'get to know' rather than 'ask about day'."

(It's funny how much the developers of The Sims have got this whole social thing to a science.)

"You can 'ask about day' though. But this new Twitter name sounds so... professional. Or geeky. I choose geeky."

"I dunno. Your new name feels so... cold."

I was listening to This American Life later that night. Middle school dance. Boys asking girls out. I, of course, never had the chance, nor the guts to do that. So, I wondered, what if I had a girlfriend in high school? The thought led to a conversation between me and Dinna, my Twitter friend from Indonesia. (I hate to make a hierarchy out of this, but you have to prove a point.) A conversation about being left behind.

"And nobody needs me," I said.

"I can say 'you don't know that,'" she answered. "But it's something I firmly believe also, so... yeah."

"I believe you'll know you're needed without anyone telling you. It happens. Just happens."

"I actually was. Now I'm not sure. Everyone seems to be content with moving forward without me."

"I hate that feeling a lot."

"So you know. I'd love to know if I'm needed. And then I can figure things out from there."

"Me? I'd love to know if it's worth telling you I need you."

"You don't actually mean me, right? Ha. Pardon, my brain is rusty."

"Heh. I knew you'd think that. But you know what I mean."

Today? I just spent the last nine hours finishing my work, then the next hour writing this blog entry. I'm not sure if there's anything to look forward to, really. I still talk to people, occasionally, but it sucks that I have to be the one to always start things. I need them more than they need me. They need other people. They have other people. And this sounds pathetic, but I'm jealous that they have other people and not me. It's not as if I'm a bad person, right? I've done everything, almost everything, right. And yet people stay away from me.

And here I am, on a day where people celebrate six ones on a calendar by making a wish, trying to catch up. Today is special if you make it so. I could've, and in a good day I would've, but I didn't, because I'm still trying to catch up. I would say it's futile, but you'll dismiss all that I just said as self-pity crap. Which it is, really.

Reasons for estrangement

2011-11-07T20:16:00.002+08:00

Because we no longer see each other eye to eye. We used to like the same things, but somehow, we drifted apart. You started liking one thing and I started liking another. And somehow, we just ceased relating to each other, or something like it.

Because I have new friends now. Better friends. Friends who'll take me for who I am.

Because you hurt me. You did something really bad. You know what I mean. You smiled at me when I asked you whether you went for this or that, and then you took a dagger and stabbed me in the back. And then you smiled at me again, like nothing happened.

Because my friends said so. And I believe them. I believe them when they told me that you're a jerk who only wants to get into my pants.

Because my boyfriend said so. "I don't want you near that motherfucker," or something to that effect.

Because you humiliated me, in front of my 134 followers, by asking me to untag you in some image.

Because you don't want me around.

Because I don't want you around.

Because you don't fit my idea of a perfect friend. You're too noisy. You don't talk a lot about yourself, but you're too interested in me. I feel creeped out about that. Oh, and you're too touchy. I'm not sure if you're trying to rape me without any sexual contact, or you just like touching people inappropriately.

Because you remind me of someone. Someone who hurt me, hurt me really bad, a good five or ten years ago. And I, I'm not good with dealing with all this emotional baggage. People tell me to talk to a psychiatrist, but nobody wants a crazy guy.

Because I'm no longer friends with the person you want to be friends with.

Because I cannot risk us being friends for fifteen, maybe twenty years, only for either you or me to do something stupid. I'm not the luckiest person in the world. Whenever I'm happy, I'm bound to get sad. These things are not meant to last.

Because all I am to you is a potential client.

Because we were never friends in the first place. Why the hell would you think that we were friends in the first place? Dude, there's a difference between being nice and being nice for the sake of being nice. Stop being so persistent.

Because you fell in love with me.

Because I fell in love with you.

Because I'm just beyond pissed off at you. And you won't tell me why you're pissed off at me. Heck, I'm willing to change, but you just won't let me anymore. And you have the gall to complain that you don't have any friends? You deserve it. You fucking deserve it.

Fluffy before

2011-11-02T18:20:00.001+08:00

"Gay?"

"I don't know. I've been calling everything gay nowadays. But yay for your fluffy crush!"

"That was the past, Icka. She's a different case, as you said."

"Maybe what you feel towards her is much more serious than that."

"I dunno. Why else would I consider courting her? Despite me saying I won't do it to anybody?"

"Could this be looooove?"

"What if it was?"

"Then what are you going to do about it?"

"The thing that I do best."

"Blog?"

"Aside from that..."

"Please don't run away and hide."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"What if you regret it?"

"What's there for me to regret? I choose silence rather than being shunned."

This was a conversation I had with Icka exactly three years ago today. I remember this because I blogged the whole thing, unedited, elsewhere, and I blogged the first part here, as I said, three years ago. That means the person I'm referring to isn't named here, but is named in the original version. That, or you already know what I'm talking about.

I mention this conversation because, in a fit of what-happened-in-previous-Novembers syndrome, I chanced upon this entry and realized that most of the things I do have a three-year shelf life. Crushes linger for three years. Friendships stay strong for three years. Interests stick for three years. And then, somewhere near the end, it just fades away, and gets replaced by other things.

And no, there are no feelings anymore. Actually, I don't think I should be looking back at this with rose-tinted glasses. That whole thing was bullshit. There are other, better things worth remembering. But yes, three years.

Pumpkin state of mind

2011-10-28T18:15:00.002+08:00

Either I've been spending too much time online, or Halloween has become such a big deal here.

"It has always been for a lot of us," newly-liberated Dee told me. "Always dreamed of going trick or treating as a kid. We're becoming more Westernized."

Perhaps. But I don't remember this happening when I was a kid. Is it because we're all grown up now, and we live such hectic lives, and we need to destress by wearing costumes, putting on make-up and acting like we're completely different people?

Then again, where I live, Halloween wasn't such a big deal. I don't live in those posh subdivisions where trick or treating is an annual occurrence. (I live near Ayala Alabang, but this tradition of theirs never reached me until I was in high school. Like I'd be interested. Or, like they'd let me.) The one time anything closely resembling trick or treating happened in my subdivision, we weren't even sure how to do it.

I was in elementary school then, and some of my classmates - those who were allowed to roam the streets at night - decided to go trick or treating. But their approach was completely different to what usually happens. After all, I realize now, nobody's prepared any candy to give.

So, my friends were the ones who had the candy. Armed with cheap costumes and some face paint, maybe, they went home to home - well, more of friend's home to friend's home - and gave the residents two options: trick, or treat. I was daring back then.

"Trick!" I exclaimed confidently.

"Ay, treat na lang," one of my friends said. (I still know their names, but I can't remember who were at my home that night.) "Wala na kaming pulbura."

So they showed me all the candy they had left, and invited me to get some. Either that, or they gave me pre-packed candy. That'd be more sensible, since they need to be fair to everyone.

Or maybe they didn't have any candy left. I can't remember at all.

The only other vague Halloween memory I had was when I was around ten or eleven - or maybe older - when my craft-inclined aunt compelled all her nephews and nieces to have our faces painted. I hated it. I've always hated face paint because I tend to get itchy. I know, I had to sit through that in college.

Fast forward to today. I look at my Facebook wall - yes, I do spend a lot of time online, and I have to - and I see a lot of posts about Halloween. Photos of my friends in costumes. Photos of my friends' nephews and nieces in costumes. Photos of my friends' children in costumes. Photos of my friends and their ad agency-type friends, of my friends and their high school friends, of my friends and the other kids in their posh neighborhoods, in costumes, armed with candy, anticipating going trick or treating.

Me? No, I'm not peeved. I'm not gloating. I just never experienced Halloween, except perhaps for the occasional viewing of the Magandang Gabi Bayan specials. Maybe it' because the fact that its Halloween got swallowed up by the fact that it's the semestral break.

This weekend is a long weekend. Four days. A chance to destress for everyone. Me, I'll spend Halloween this year on the way home from Baguio. No trick or treating. Just roads. And then, back to work. The long weekend is completely irrelevant to me. At least, Tuesday is.

Once again: I was bullied in high school...

2011-10-23T21:08:00.002+08:00

Since when did all of you care about bullying?

Yes, I am being cynical. And yes, perhaps, I'm operating on another bout of self-pity. But really now. Since when did all of you care about bullying?

Lately that has been a buzzword of sorts. And I'm not just talking about all of those news stories from the United States, about a bunch of suicides from people who have been bullied by their peers. You know, those stories that try a little harder to get something inspiring out of something as sad as death. Oh, it's sad he had to commit suicide. He's actually such a nice person. I'm also thinking of all the talk about bullying here in the Philippines - of a bill, filed by a senator whose name slips me, aiming to squash bullying in Filipino schools once and for all. Or all of those reports in the media, advising parents about what to do if they think their children is being targeted by bullies in school. If your child's grades are flagging, and he's getting more anxious about going to school, be worried, they'd say.

Maybe I'm just surprised that, in the past few months, it has become quite a big deal.

Ten years ago, when I entered high school, it was a bit of an afterthought. I remember the school handbook mentioning a "zero-tolerance policy" against bullying, but not as much as the taunts I received from pretty much the whole school when I first entered. I was the new kid, the guy who came from one place and is trying hard, so hard, to adjust in another. From day one, I was called autistic. I don't even remember acting differently. Next thing I know, all of the freshmen were calling me that. The one friend I made in that first day in school left me - at least he had the guts to explain himself, saying he was being bullied as well by association. The following day, he was bullying me too.

A few weeks later, the sophomores were making fun of me. There was this guy in my school service who put bubble gum in my hair. Well, the kid was a big jerk anyway. He'd extort coins from everybody just so he could head to a computer store and play Counter Strike. And then, the juniors were making fun of me - these two guys led me to the ladies' room instead of the men's room, taking advantage of the fact that there were no signs differentiating one from the other.

And what did my section adviser do? She took me one morning to the prayer room, put her hands on my head, and prayed. A month later, I got kicked out. For slapping a girl. My only offense.

If you've been reading my blog for the past six years you'd know I attribute my cynicism to those three months in that "peace-loving" school. I was trying so hard to get by in those three months. I always had lunch at the guidance office, and spent all my free time at the library, reading all those journalism books. I got really excited when some of my classmates took interest in my frequent retelling of how good my life was back in elementary school, knowing that it's all a front anyway. I was just winging it.

Thinking of that, I still remember that paragraph I saw in the student handbook about bullying. That so-called "zero-tolerance policy". I'm not saying mine is a special case, but I only had little support from my teachers. I guess they wanted to keep the status quo, which explains why I was kicked out on my first offense. Some parent went complaining.

My parents don't like it when I get so worked up about those three months. I still do ten years later. I have many regrets in life, and to be honest, one of my biggest is getting kicked out of that school. It's a fact I can airbrush (and have airbrushed) out of official-ish records, but the fact remains that those experiences have changed me forever. It's certainly the reason why I have never been able to cope well with people. Whenever I bring that up my parents would ask me to shut up. Apparently my voice causes headaches. Apparently I should've acted like a man. Fought like a man. A tall order for a twelve-year-old who moved schools against his wishes. A tall order for a twelve-year-old who's been told, again and again, never to hurt anybody, or else you will get pink slips from school.

So what's with all the concern now? Why is it that, all of a sudden, everybody - or at least the most vocal ones - are concerned about bullying? Why are people writing articles telling you to block anybody who anonymously taunts you online? Why is there an outpouring of grief towards children who decided that life is not worth living because people told them, insistently and furiously, that they're not good enough, that they'll never be good enough?

When I heard of that anti-bullying law filed in the senate, I knew it's a bunch of bullshit. Lip service to reassure people that they are on their side. We understand that bullying causes severe psychological trauma to your children, so we're filing a bill to force schools to take action. But, sir, you don't need a law to force schools to take action. That just shows how negligent our schools, public or private, are. You don't need a law to tell schools of their basic obligation - to keep watch over the students, and to make sure that they're doing just fine. You do need a law, however, to force schools to stop giving prevalence to students (and their parents) who have been under their care for their entire schooling life - the sort that gets them flimsy "loyalty awards" during year-end ceremonies.

You do need a law that will force schools to not just pay lip service to their so-called "zero-tolerance policies" against bullying. You have to make them beyond vigilant. And you have to give them balls to address the issues as soon as they strike. Don't just talk about how wonderful life is when people get along: make it so. Pick up the bad kids, as soon as you have proof, and make sure they get what they ought to get. Make sure everyone is treated fairly, by the book if need be, and not on the whim of parents who'll demand this and that just to get their way. You are, after all, beholden to the students, and not to those who pay the tuition fee.

You do need a law that will force everyone to change their mindsets about anything and everything that is different to them. So what if I'm gay? Or just effeminate? So what if I'm autistic? Or just feeling awkward? That doesn't mean you get the right to taunt me to death. Right now everybody is just doing lip service. Be yourself, you'd probably say, but not right here, not right now, not ever. Right now everybody is feeling bad for those suicides, but no lessons will be learned. They'll just write a few sentences, maybe post a couple of PSAs on their Facebook pages, perhaps one with their favorite Glee stars, and then nothing. You'll see someone acting differently and it all starts over again.

Then again, we are all predisposed to feel threatened, or bully, whatever, anybody who's vaguely different from us. In schools, in the workplaces, inside a car in the middle of a road trip... all this talk about ending bullying, it's a bunch of bullshit. It's still all about the status quo. It always was, and it always will be.

Cute girl in a coffee shop

2011-10-18T16:51:00.000+08:00

So, you've probably (emphasis on probably) read my last blog entry about my trip to the mall. You know, that trip where I spent a good chunk of my time getting frustrated at the lack of things I could buy, and a bigger chunk of time waiting for my brother to finish replenishing his social life quota.

I absolutely ran out of things to do at around three in the afternoon, so I decided to just hang out at the CBTL branch nearby. It was a weekend, so I had a hard time getting a seat, but I ended up taking one of those lounge-y cushioned seats for myself and my newly-bought magazine. One large order of their double-chocolate drink later, I was settled in.

The cashier, by the way, was cute. Yes, I am going there.

Oddly, I noticed that while angling for that lounge-y seat, the only unoccupied seat at the time. I was third in line; ahead of me were a couple of Koreans and an old man. One of my feet was in the line; the other was pointed towards the seat, in a variation of Kevin's shoulder lock theory (you like the person a lot when your shoulders face the person a lot). And yet this allowed me to actually look at the girl in front of me when I gave my order. "Isang double chocolate," I'd say, just looking at her eyes, because I already knew what I was going to buy way before I started putting myself in compromising positions.

"With whipped cream, sir?"

"Umm, sige," I answered.

I don't know how she exactly looked like. The first description I had in mind went along the lines of "kamukha niya si Rachelle Ann Go" but she had softer features. I don't really know how to put it. But she was cute, and I found her cute, and I told myself that I'll write a blog entry about her, which is as creepy as things can get, except for the fact that I did the exact thing before.

Except, this time, I was planning to write about the sad fact that I don't have a shred of confidence in myself, when I used to have too much of it before.

My first crush was when I was in pre-school. I didn't know the term "crush" then: the official line was more of me being in love with her, and that was before I actually had an idea of what romantic love is. One of my earliest memories was during recess, when I went up to her and asked her, without any pretense: "mahal mo ba ako?"

I think she said yes. But I'm not sure if that really happened. Mind you, it was roughly fifteen years ago, and I would have definitely forgotten some details here and there. I still remember her name, though. I won't mention it here because I don't want to tag her.

My crushes in elementary school were pretty much public. (Hello, Yum.) High school? Less so. Things eventually crept out, but I tended to keep these things a secret, partly because I didn't want my aunts to tease me about my latest fantasy girl Friday, but mostly because I realized I just didn't have what it takes. Either I wasn't very sure about what I was feeling, or I made a fool out of myself enough to put me out of the running for guy you'd consider spending the rest of your life with.

But I remembered that one story, and I felt sad. Here I was, in a coffee shop, killing time by reading a magazine, occasionally glancing towards the counter to see if the cute girl was still there (mostly yes). If I was my pre-school self, at least confidence-wise, I would've approached her and talked to her and maybe asked for her number.

"What's your name, sir?" she asked.

"Niko," I said, certain that it will be misspelled in one way or another. "And yours?"

"Joanne."

She looks like a Joanne. Not a Rachelle, but a Joanne. I would presume that since there was no name tag of sorts.

But no. I just sat there, reading a magazine, and writing this blog entry in my head. I'm moping at how much things have changed. At how big my inhibitions are. At how many times I hid my feelings towards someone because I was afraid I'd look foolish. Because that's what always happens, right? You look foolish. You blow your one chance. And then things get awkward.

I ended up staying there for two hours. I saw men with backpacks come in. A group of friends who dress like teachers. More Koreans. I could only do so much. I got bored, and decided to leave, especially since my brother's back in the mall and I had to drive him (and, as it turns out, a friend of his - that's all I am to him, a driver) home.

I didn't notice the girl left her post. The last I saw her, she was outside the coffee shop, talking to a male colleague, taking a cigarette off her pocket, getting a light, smoking.

I'm leaving.

Perhaps the most pretentious blog entry I'll ever write

2011-10-09T21:42:00.002+08:00

I was at the mall yesterday, at the record store, feeling very frustrated, as always. On the new releases shelf: earworm-inducing tween pop, generic American pop-punk, and acoustic covers of songs. Oh, and since it's almost Christmas, we get "party mixes" featuring this year's hits lovingly sequences with Jingle Bells. Considering my love for British indie rock and not-so-quirky female vocals, it just does not cut it.

It's hard to be a self-respecting music fan nowadays. I know, that line sounds pretentious, maybe completely dismissive of the fact that Justin Bieber runs the world - I wouldn't complain if she fits my not-so-quirky female vocal idea - but think about it. If you want to listen to music that's more challenging than the faux-dubstep, faux-urban pop that permeates the airwaves today, then you're not in luck. Sure, they also stock Arcade Fire (because their Grammy win forced them to), but it's just one stripped-down copy against the rows of shelf space devoted to suddenly-popular but still-shitty All Time Low. And don't get me started on Korean pop, which should be good on its own, but is owning too much space considering their fans are only a screaming minority.

So, if you want to listen to something else, you end up downloading illegally. I'll admit, I've done my fair share, too. But I love listening to the Manic Street Preachers, and I have not seen their last three CDs in stores here in the Philippines. And All Time Low, despite their popularity here, will never be as good. (Disclaimer: I'm not ripping those boys apart - my two siblings are big fans - but my sister will readily admit that they're generic American pop-punk.) And any amount of praying that the record stores here will open their eyes and realize that there's a bunch of disenfranchised people who love their music and are willing to pay for them will do you no good.

Remember ten years ago? Tower Records was still alive back then. Their branch at the Alabang Town Center was quite big - and while I never really grasped the variety of music in store back then, I knew that there was a big section devoted to jazz, and "pop/rock" occupied two aisles. I definitely know they carried Elbow's albums. I bought Athlete's Tourist and Missy Higgins' The Sound of White with my own money. I almost bought Beth Rowley's debut here, even - but when I had the money, the store closed.

And now, here I am, at Odyssey, looking at this one shelf, a third of which is K-pop, another third Taylor Swift derivatives, and another third really obscure Swedish indie pop that never even sells here. And that's the whole "pop/rock" section. Nothing for those whose musical preferences can't be defined by a single popular-despite-being-beyond-shitty radio station.

Okay. I do buy pop sometimes. I have all ten Glee CDs. Also, this happened. I grew up listening to jazz, but I also grew up listening to pop radio. But this was in the 1990s, when pop radio really meant it when they say "more music". This was in the early 2000s, when System of a Down was played on a Top 40 station here, and Keane's Everybody's Changing sat nicely with a still-decent Jennifer Lopez. Sure, you'll still hear the occasional outside-pop act on the radio, but not after you've heard the word "baby" a million times. Apparently people want to hear the word "baby" a million times. Or "Alejandro".

Anyway, I did buy Beth Rowley's CD eventually - in Singapore. That's what the Odyssey trip made me want to do. I wanted to return to Singapore. At least those kids learned well when they were under the British. They were always good with these things. You go to their record stores and you see floors devoted to a genre. My two Elbow CDs came from there. My two Manics CDs came from there. I would've bought a Sia CD if I had enough money. I can lose myself in one of those record stores - sure, it's frustrating not knowing what to buy, but you can go home with eight CDs that you will never see sold in Manila. Well, except for the Glee CD. The first one, I bought in Singapore.

When my sister returned to Singapore early this year I gave her five thousand bucks and a list of CDs she should buy for me. I was expecting nine, and she only returned with four. Laura Marling's outstanding second album was there, as well as this CD from Lissie, an artist I wouldn't have heard of if I stuck with local radio. Sure, a bit disappointing only getting four, but hey, CDs from acts I actually care about. I was making a list in my head yesterday. I want Laura Marling's third. I want Noel Gallagher's solo debut. Now, that's one guy who's not obscure. Surely many people know Don't Look Back In Anger, right? Wonderwall? He did not sing that, but he penned it. You can slap a sticker on his debut album that explains who he is. "The main songwriter for Oasis." They can do those stickers for those Swedish acts, complete with "if you're a fan of obscure act with obscure act, you'll like obscure act" lines, why not for people we might possibly know?

They didn't, by the way, have to do that with the new Beady Eye (read: Oasis minus Noel) album. I spotted Different Gear, Still Speeding at Fully Booked today. That place is perhaps the closest we have to a Singapore record store. Just one floor, but a wide selection nonetheless. You know, like what you'd usually see in a record store when pop radio played so much music. I ended up buying the new Oh Land album there earlier. For a thousand bucks. When I could've downloaded this for free instead. Like all the other albums I want but can't get, because kids prefer to hear "baby" a million times.

I know. I'm sounding both pretentious and resentful. And poor. I can't afford everything at this rate.

And I haven't gotten around to mentioning my conversations with Jeany at this rate.

Assumed stories

2011-10-05T17:34:00.000+08:00

Over the weekend my dad and I returned to the cemetery, to light a few candles for my late grandmother, and to give our new pet dog - a month-old Lab, whose entry I didn't know until it actually happened - a chance to walk in some actual grass. The trip was a bit hastily-assembled, because when we got there we realized we forgot to bring seats and refreshments for the three of us. We ended up winging it for two hours: no water, lots of wind.

And since there's no use for sitting around - oh, and there's the dog, who my mom named after Rafael Nadal - I had to walk around the cemetery. Well, memorial park, to be more specific, and to make your mental imagery less creepy. You don't get monuments squeezed in as little space as humanly possible; you get grass interrupted by tombstones. Or tomb tablets, whatever. And when you get tired of walking around just to get your pet dog to follow you, you read all that's written in those tablets.

The clan had this little conversation a week after my grandmother died, about what we would put on the tombstone. We ended up with a Bible verse (that refers to a "him", but I'm sure it can be interpreted, if not rewritten, otherwise - I'm no fundamentalist) but the running joke was this plan to have one of my grandmother's more memorable statements written down there. It was said, apparently, during a visit to my grandfather's hometown in Ilocos, when she was looking at the flowers there, and noticed that they look more vibrant than the ones here.

"Tanginang bougainvillea 'to, ang ganda!" she exclaimed.

Of course, that will not look good in a tombstone, so we ended up with something much more muted.

There's a thrill, for lack of a better word, in reading all those tombstones, figuring out when they were born and when they died. My grandmother's eternal neighbors are mostly old people - some were born in the 19th century, even - but their death dates are wildly disparate. The earliest deaths I've seen were in the 1960s. The nearest occupied plot was, well, occupied for two decades now. Further afield, we have people who died in the past few years - a fact you can easily tell by how their tombstones were embossed rather than made by hand.

Some of the plots were occupied by married couples, and one of them almost always leaves this earth a good two decades before the other. Well, except for this one couple where the husband died in February, and the wife followed four months later. A classic case of heartbreak, perhaps.

Nearby, there's one plot that's occupied by brothers, or so I assume. The older one was born around the time I was born, and died when he was two years old. Nine months later, the younger brother came. He died when he was six.

Closer to the exit there's a row of five tombstones, all belonging to the same (Chinese, presumably rich) family. They're one of the older ones - they were all buried in the 1960s. They all died on the same day. 2 August 1962, if I remember correctly. Five siblings, I assume, the eldest being born in 1947, the youngest being born in 1953. At least their bodies were still recovered. Perhaps a tragic car accident.

Rafa went to sleep, and I decided to sit on the pavement. My dad was trying to keep the candles by my grandmother's grave lit when a man, probably in his 50s, walked by and looked at her grave. Dad engaged in small talk, and I tried to eavesdrop. The guy was visiting his wife, who worked in a factory, although not as a factory worker. She was in a management role, but she was exposed nonetheless to the bad side of the factory, and died a few months back of a lung tumor.

And then the conversation shifted to how close we live to Metro Manila, despite the fact that we technically live in Cavite.

Five days

2011-09-29T13:09:00.001+08:00

There's this story making the rounds on Facebook today, about a guy who was found dead in his office desk. Apparently he suffered from a heart attack while working and has been dead for five days.

Five days. And nobody even noticed him.

Nobody asked him if he's okay. Nobody wondered if anything was wrong with him. Nobody even noticed that he hasn't changed his clothes, or even his position, for five days.

Of course, the workplace might be the issue. Apparently he's doing some work for medical textbooks. I can only imagine how stressful that is. One room, fifteen cubicles, perhaps twenty people, all of their attention focused on getting those textbooks out on time. Conversations about hard-to-pronounce medical terms and how to nail them on the computer. I get why nobody will notice him. And sure, maybe the guy worked too hard that his heart conked out. Myocardial infarction! And everybody else was too busy getting that term right, to the point that they didn't notice that it's happening in front of them. Or beside them, or something.

The article's angle, after all, was something along the lines of "don't work too hard."

Of course I'd be incensed by that article, partly because it brings back memories of my two-and-a-half year stint in Ortigas where nobody pretty much cared for me. Yeah, that's all behind me now, the thought of forced conversations and let's-not-talk-about-him mindsets. Supposedly. I remember my chair breaking when I sat down one day, and that got their attention, and they even managed to insult me.

"Okay ka lang ba?"

"Obivously, hindi."

No. I'm incensed more by the fact that the article is telling us to not work hard. Sure, I get it. Take some time off. Take a break. Talk to friends. Go out once in a while. Drink seventeen shots of tequila but don't drink two bottles of beer. Or, if you do drink two bottles of beer, approach the nearest girl and force yourself upon her, and try to dodge a sexual assault charge.

What I mean is, the suggestion that we not work so hard has a big implication. It's not just "take a break". It's "you don't need to work that hard to succeed."

Okay. You're saying, but you're just forcing that thought. And sure, maybe I am. But think about it. Working alone won't get you anywhere - it kills you when you do it too much, apparently. No. You have to grease the wheels a bit. Talk to people. Reach out to them. Suck up to them. It's actually more productive when someone distracts you from working. And sure, I definitely get that. You cannot survive by just crunching numbers and not talking to people.

But somewhere along the way, it becomes all about the talking and not the working. When it's all about the people you know, and the people you care about, rather than the things you know, and the things you've done. So, sure, I feel bad for the guy. He worked his ass off only to die - and only to remain unnoticed for five days. Nobody gave a damn until, perhaps, they started smelling some stench in his cubicle. Nobody gave a damn until he forced their hands by having a heart attack - myocardial infarction! - and dying there, staying there. You know. While they all just worked and chatted in between. And left for lunch. And asked if they can take a ride home. And go hang out at the bar. And maybe avoid a sexual assault charge.

Definitely avoid that awkward looking guy because he just doesn't look like your type.

It sucks that life has become a social game. Just a social game.

The day Haley said sorry

2011-09-18T22:57:00.000+08:00

That photograph almost didn't happen.

You see, in an attempt to capitalize (I think) on the fact that this is the first time the American Idol summer tour left North America - this is their only gig outside the continent - the ticket prices are high. Really high. I've been spoiled by my Vertical Horizon experience so I wouldn't settle for anything that doesn't provide a good view of the action. Also, it's Haley Reinhart. It's Haley freaking Reinhart. The girl who had the chops but didn't quite do well in the beginning, until this and this and this and this happened, and until we all hoped that she'd break what was looking like an all-country finale, which happened anyway.

But, I thought, I don't want to spend most of my monthly salary on watching Haley do a few songs, and having to sit through acts I never cared about. (Read: big toddler.) So, as the television ads started making all the Solar channels unwatchable, I told myself that I'm not watching the concert. Maybe if Haley gets a record deal (she did) and releases an album (she hopefully will) and returns to the Philippines (she must) then I'll go.

That was a couple of months ago. Throughout that time I was rationalizing my decision by asking, "how many people will watch the concert exactly?" I've covered Idol for three years and I don't think the last two seasons had a really big following - gone are the days when David vs David mattered. And then the producers added a second date, and I found myself really bewildered. But it never changed my decision.

Turns out I didn't have to. I was catching up with work last Friday when I saw a tweet from Jean, talking about an "ATC gig" involving Haley, along with three other finalists: Casey Abrams, Jacob Lusk and winner Scotty McCreery.

"There is an ATC gig?" I replied back. "I must go."

More of a meet and greet really, but still, it's something you do not dare miss. It costs way less than a ticket to a concert with people you don't like. And it's right in my backyard! And I might have a photo with Haley! Dexter will be so proud.

Knowing ATC, the photograph won't happen. The host at the actual event was quite apologetic about it. "Bad news," he described it. But whatever. The photograph with Allison Iraheta wasn't completely expected either (but heavily hoped for). The least I could do is say hello, and be able to proudly say that I met Haley freaking Reinhart.

The only other person to see my frantic replies was Kimmy, who badly wanted to go, if not for the fact that it's happening in Alabang - and, if you're in the north, Alabang is a province. She's also a big Haley fan (and a Casey fan to boot) so, I figured, there's no reason to miss it. She tried, she really tried, but she ultimately didn't go. Madel also wanted to go but also said it's too far. (She should've heard of the fan who came from Quezon City. And that one who came from Bulacan.) Mika, another one of my David Cook contacts, had to study. And Mooie? She thought I was meeting Hayley Williams, and was this close to coming with me. To be fair, I told her about it because we talked about those expensive tickets before.

I ended up going with Jean, who went with her friend Ruby, who went with her mom, or so I believe. The upside to this is, I didn't have to stand near the stage to wait for a line to form, since we ended up staying in the jewelry shop Ruby's in. The downside is, we didn't see the line form. The upside is, we were ahead in line - and I had stub number 62. And I was in the mall thirty minutes after it opened. People actually waited.

I guess I shouldn't have doubted the number of people who had an interest in Idol's tenth season. I honestly thought - and objectively, I must also add - that most Filipinos would go for Haley, whose musical sensibilities were really through the roof. Well, most of my friends were for Haley. Also, I never thought country would have a following here. But there were a lot of people later in the afternoon, mostly kids my age, but a significant bunch of them were mothers. They weren't just there to accompany their kids: they wanted to meet Scotty. Yes, Scotty, the nice kid. My Idol cohort this season, Carla, did once write that Scotty is like the son she wanted to have. She was on to something all this time.

Ruby was for Scotty too. She found him cute. Jean wasn't sure about which CD to buy: she ended up buying both Scotty and Haley's EPs. And pretty much most of the girls were for Scotty, too, judging from the loud screams that came in when he finally made it to the stage, a good thirty minutes behind schedule. Turns out I am terribly outnumbered. Not that I mind. I did say he wouldn't last long, but I prefer him over the attention whore.

I did wait a good six hours before the finalists hit the stage. I had to sit through - no, stand through, because there were no seats - a performance from one of those artists who can only sing acoustic versions of pop songs, and a (pretty good) host who both tried to get the audience going while reminding us that, no, we can't take photographs with our favorites. I can't have a photograph with Haley. Not happening. No.

In between, I was texting Kimmy, who seemed like she's regretting her decision not to come down south. "Say hi to Haley and Casey for me!" she said, and we ended up hatching a plan: she'd text me her message to the growlers, and I'd show it to them. It was a loophole in the rules that I was willing to exploit. I guess I was extra willing to make it work, since the AV guy was just playing Haley's CD on the big speakers. Bennie and the Jets for everyone to hear. A pretty surreal feeling, if you ask me.

I wasn't the only one feeling that way. The finalists were pretty overwhelmed too. They came out all holding cameras, taking photos or videos of the frantic crowds. Me, I was just failing with my photographs (as usual) while wondering why Jacob was wearing a sando of sorts. Casey had a scruffy beard. Scotty was, well, Scotty. And Haley? She was wearing short shorts. Flaunt what you have, I figured. She was on to something all this time.

Interestingly, Jacob was the guy who got everyone going: he was really soaking in the crowd, very vocal in greeting us. Casey was more subdued that Smells Like Teen Spirit suggested. The other two were, well, cute. Haley had the biggest smile, while Scotty looked really grateful for the experience. (I couldn't say much about him, really, because whenever he speaks, the girls go wild.) Both of them tried to speak some Filipino, as you'd expect, but Haley got "mahal kita" spot-on. She really should go back.

Yes, all this time, I was quite calm. I remember seeing Allison, and feeling quite nervous about it. This time, it's like I've been through it all - clearly not the case - and this is just one of those things. Or I got used to the idea that I cannot have a photo with Haley, and that I also blew my one shot at asking her a question, by addressing it to everyone.

"What's the best thing that happened to you in the US tour that you want to see here in the Philippines?"

"Seeing everyone enjoy every kind of music," Casey answered.

I should've asked Haley about almost filling in for Lauren during the finale. So much for press privileges.

I had it all planned out, really. I'll say hello to everyone, maybe shake a few hands, and have Haley sign my CD, while they all sign the poster that I got for free. I think I kinda planned to tell Haley that I've written about her, in the hopes that I'll be recognized somehow. Nah, I actually wanted to tell her that she's lovely. That exact adjective. I was hoping that Kimmy would have sent me her message by then, but when she asked me if she can still send one, I was already in line, and the foreign entourage decided to have things their way. They wanted it all to end soon, and ended up ruining it all.

Scotty signs the poster.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"Fine! How are you?" I replied.

"Good."

Then he signs the poster with his name. I move to the next seat, and Haley, who gets the poster. Moment of truth. I prepared her CD's inlay for her to sign.

"Only one," the foreign girl behind her insisted. "Only one."

Haley looked at her and realized she can't do anything.

"I'm sorry," she told me, in that delicious (that's objective) voice of hers, as she signed the poster. "But thanks for buying the CD!"

She then passes the poster to Jacob, while saying something that suggests that she's overwhelmed. Jacob just signs the thing. I never even got to say hello to him.

He then passes the poster to Casey, who was more accommodating.

"Hey man," he said.

"Hey! How are you?" I replied.

"Good, good!"

He draws his face on the poster. Emphasis on the scruffy beard. I thanked him and left the stage, and the cordoned-off area... and that was it.

Things like this always tend to be five hours of hype and five minutes of disappointment. I really wanted Haley's CD signed. That's what I came for! And then some snobbish woman who probably was never a fan of anybody during her high school years decided to take it all away from me. I say "me" because Jean and Ruby had better luck, since they had Scotty CDs: he signed those. Ruby even got a hug from the guy - and rubbed cheeks, however you translate "beso-beso" - before the bouncers came tumbling in. And they didn't even do a good job, because Jean got to hug Casey. And I didn't even get to shake their hands.

But whatever. I still got to meet Haley freaking Reinhart, and that's all I wanted to do. She is, as I expected from those performances and those behind-the-scenes videos and her interview with Michael Slezak, lovely.

Still. Damn. No photographs.

Another skyscraper

2011-09-11T19:05:00.000+08:00

For the past two weeks I've been looking for a way to write about the 9/11 attacks, without talking about me, or high school, or ever going, "well, Niko, that's ten years of cynicism, then!"

Well, really, I've been trying to write something that will make sense of it all. Maybe I should say I'm trying to sound like a smartass, sound like I absolutely get things, when all I've done is watch the news channels over the past decade and take in all I know. I haven't even read any of those conspiracy theories.

The closest I am to exerting effort for this blog entry is to try to reach Jeany. Yes, we're talking again, but she's still as hard to get a hold of. She was in New York ten years ago, and I thought I'd write a journalistic piece of sorts about being roughly eleven, maybe twelve, and looking out of your window and seeing the World Trade Center go down.

She did, however, talk to Youth Radio half a year back, around the time when Osama Bin Laden was killed.

Some of my friends had family who died in the World Trade Center. The trauma I experienced that day, and months after that, seems like nothing compared to what the families and friends of these victims went through.

Before 9/11, I lived a charmed life in Tribeca. My favorite thing to do with my dad was eating dinner at Windows on the World Restaurant as a kid. Aerial views of the city from the 100th or so floor made Manhattan look like a dollhouse with yellow Hot Wheels cars. God, I miss that view terribly.

After 9/11, We couldn't go back to our apartment for months. I was in constant anxiety that year wondering, "When will I go home? Do we have a home? Is my stuff okay? I hope my clothes aren’t chemically toxic." Downtown Manhattan was my home, and I so badly wanted to return. Eventually, we did move back into our old apartment in May of 2002 to find our possessions under a mountain of toxic dust. My mother arranged for our apartment to be fumigated, and when we moved back in, we had to get new towels, rugs, kitchen appliances.

Recently I've been (sort of) poking fun at Jean for being such a quintessential New Yorker, and one who lives in Manhattan at that. Sure, she already lives a less-than-usual existence, but when we talk it's like she's just some girl who's looking for her place in the world, apart from her apartment at Times Square. I'm flicking through back copies of New York, figuring out how one can keep track of all this - and I don't even get Manila - and she absolutely gets it.

After I returned to Tribeca, I eventually resumed my normal day-to-day life with my family and blocked out all those traumatic feelings I experienced that year. I try not to think about 9/11 - getting in depth with it floods everything back like a freight train that is ready to retard my mindset.

Ten years later, life did go on.

But of course she didn't forget it. She was there. I wasn't, but I didn't forget it, either. I think I know, pretty well, how much more suspicious we all have gotten since those terrorists hijacked those planes. Say, protesters at the US Embassy. Protesters at a gas station, ranting about oil cartels. Jeany telling me to visit New York, and me always telling her that it's hard, mostly because of the money, but significantly because the American government will probably never trust me ever again.

But at the same time we've moved on and gone about with our lives. We did not exactly live the rest of our lives in fear: all of the suspicion, all of the removed shoes, they just became a fact of life, and it never stopped us from being what the fundamentalists might call "infidels". We do things differently, but we never really crawled back in our shells. (Not that it stopped the fundamentalists from calling us "infidels".) It's like looking south and seeing nothing where a tall steel building used to be - and where a construction site now is.

Not that I know this from experience. When it happened, I was at home, halfway around the world, helping out with my sister's homework, when my brother came out of his room and told me, "kuya, may dalawang building, nasusunog."

They do say you'll never forget where you are when it all happened.

Grandparents' day

2011-09-11T07:17:00.001+08:00

A couple of weeks back I was with my grandparents in Caloocan. Pretty much the whole clan was there, cramped in a pretty small space, playfully jostling over who gets to each lunch first, something determined by who gets to the house first - in this case, we were first, so I got to enjoy my grandmother's batchoy first.

"Ano to, 'la? Dugo?" I asked.

"Oo, dugo yan," she answered, and I just chowed down.

That day my grandfather decided to get many of his old photos and compile them into one photo album. I thought it was an odd decision, because the photos were stored nicely in many other photo albums. He was a photographer when he was much younger - I'm not sure if he ran a photo studio, but he definitely knew his way around the lens, judging from how well he framed things. I borrowed his SLR for photography class, for one.

Anyway, I've seen those photos before, but that day I decided to look at those again. They were mostly shot in the 1960s and 1970s, and pretty much told the family's whole story. There was a photo of my grandparents, then newly-married - I figured my grandfather did not take that photograph, because it had somebody else's name on it. But everything else was his - photos of my uncles and aunt when they were little, posing outside their home (the very same home in Caloocan) or around many places in Manila. Ahh, Manila in those times had lots of parks. They definitely had their options.

My grandparents weren't exactly the richest. My grandfather worked at a nearby paper factory, a thing he did for the longest time, since I remember being a grade schooler and getting extra crepe paper from him. My grandmother, on the other hand, worked in a factory, and at one point tended to a sari-sari store in front of her home. I remember this one photo where she was holding a placard with some other women. A strike, I was told.

I don't think she spent a lot of time working, because most of the photos I was flicking through featured her and my uncles and aunt - and, if you're asking, eventually, my dad, the youngest in the bunch. He was squirming in the camera like a little boy always does. This family photo I liked? He wasn't looking straight.

When my grandparents renewed their marriage vows a few years back, my dad told this story. He is, technically, the fifth child: my grandparents had a fourth, a daughter, who passed away a few days after birth. They wanted four kids, so they tried again, and here I am.

Early this year the whole Dela Cruz clan - that's my grandmother's side of the family - had a reunion. One of her sisters, my Nana Crising, returned from Washington DC and we all had this pretty big party at a restaurant nearby. She was the only one among all six siblings to get to college and get a good job, and when she recalled that she couldn't help but cry. It was really hard for them, she said, so us little kids should never take for granted what comfort we have in life now.

My grandmother certainly took it in stride. She's a jolly fellow, perhaps loud-mouthed, but definitely jolly. I remember when I was at her place, just me and my dad, after bringing her to the hospital to have her foot checked. We bought lunch from Chowking and we realized it wasn't going to be enough - no, that's not the story... I'm not really sure what happened, but I was at her home, helping her out by slicing vegetables for the lumpiang hubad she was going to cook for lunch that day. Yeah, that was another family reunion. It's a step, because I would've loved to watch her cook dinuguan.

Yesterday she was rushed to the hospital. She was nursing a high fever the past couple of days. Not sure what exactly happened. An infection that got to the brain, the doctors figured. Early this morning she flatlined. I woke up today to my mom telling the news that my Lola Pining has passed away.

On Grandparents' Day, no less.

Chances

2011-09-08T17:24:00.000+08:00

I can see it now. I will definitely die alone.

I will be in my 70s, still living in this house, alone. My parents would've died by now. My siblings would have their own families, and are living in their own places. That leaves me, watching over this house, while not exactly taking care of it, since it will be messier than it is now - my mother is meticulous, as you'd expect - and the whole place is breaking apart.

There'd probably be many jars in the kitchen, of things I fancied buying, ended up buying, and never consumed much of. My current room will be dusty, which means I can't spend time there unless I want another asthma attack. I'd be sleeping in the master bedroom, only with a dead air conditioner.

And the tables would be full of stuff that I can't be bothered to pick up and put away. Every surface, really. Decades-old magazines piled in every corner, no longer organized like I would, because I'd read them anyway, over and over again. What would I do in my free time anyway? I'd look over the house, read the newspaper, go nostalgic about the past, and maybe play The Sims in my now terribly obsolete computer. For hours. And then I'd get frustrated because my game is corrupted again, and then I'll feel bad for myself. So why am I here anyway? I'd ask.

One day I will realize that my house is getting too messy even for me. I will have to store my magazines from the time when Justin Bieber was still king. I will decide to keep some of them in my old room. I will get in there, stacks of Q in tow, and I will take in all the dust, and I will have an asthma attack, a severe asthma attack. And that will be the end of the story.

If my parents are to be believed, I will die alone. They will say that whenever they can. I'd tell them about how my friends are treating me - like shit, really - and they'd tell me that I'm doing things all wrong. I justify my actions, and they'll say that I'm screwing this up. At this rate, they'd always say, nobody will want to spend time with you. You will die alone. A scary thought, but one that's looking all true at the moment.

I'm just 22, but here I am, wondering about where I will end up. I refuse to acknowledge my parents' belief that I screwed up, but I also believe that I screwed up. I shouldn't have gone against the grain, for one. I should've been more forgiving of the people around me. I should've been more malleable and less rigid. Now, I'm getting by, but I spend seven days of the week at home, virtually alone, relying on people halfway around the world for conversation that will never reach the level of understand that you've always hoped to see from the people you deal with in person. And I'd be on Twitter, seeing people invite other people for things. How come I'm never considered? I'd wonder. Well, either I'm not really their priority, I'd continue, or I'm just absolutely repulsive, more repulsive that I know I am. Why else would they not want me around? And then I'd realize that my parents might be right. And I'd resist that notion yet again.

I never understood the need for rules to deal with the world, really. For one, these rules contradict each other. Be yourself, but don't do this because I don't like that. That is the golden rule. Be yourself, but within limits. In other words, be like everybody else. And be confident. There is no room in this world for people like you, Niko - for people who are completely unsure of what they are doing, because that makes for uncomfortable relations.

But they contradict each other, so I've gone about things just winging it, basically. I give others a chance, but I don't get one. I try my best to be good, only to be abandoned midway through the flight. I start friendships but people disregard you anyway, because really, what's the use of getting to know new people when I have people who I already know for the longest time?

My parents think I will reach my 70s alone, and it's all my fault.

I will, however, reach my 70s alone, and blame all of you for not giving me a chance.

The manifesto of a hopeless romantic

2011-08-31T17:22:00.001+08:00

You. I like you.

I'm telling you this even if, I'll admit, I don't really know how much I like you. I don't know if this is love or just infatuation. I've always told myself to stop mistaking fondness for certain people for romantic feelings, and yet I could never seem to make the distinction. Or, I can make the distinction, but I still call it romantic feelings anyway.

I'm telling you this even if I know that this will tear the two of us apart, mostly because I will stop talking to you, because I will start feeling awkward around you, because I believe you will start feeling awkward around me. But really, I've done this many times, and more often than not they just shrug off my confessions as something juvenile. I don't think anybody takes me seriously, even if I often talk about how the current idea of love is unsustainable, about how it's all about impressing the ladies rather than talking about your feelings. Maybe they will take me seriously if I start shelling out money.

I'm telling you this even if I know that this will only crush me inside, because nobody except the crazy ones wants to take things to the next level. But this is perfectly fine, you'd probably say, so why ruin something that's working well in the first place? And you're right. Why say "I like you" when we can just hang out and not talk about feelings and generally acknowledge that we like each other's presence, but only in a let's-hang-out-at-the-mall-and-not-talk-about-our-future kind of way?

I know, I have the propensity of complicating things, because I mistake this for something else, and you'll think I'm being immature, and start drifting away. But you'll also tell me to follow my heart, and you'll tell me to grab that opportunity as soon as possible or live with the heartbreak forever. Only we'll all live with the heartbreak forever anyway. We always do. You see this guy make this grand gesture to this girl, making everyone believe it's forever, only to realize that it's not working out. It never does, and then someone makes a mistake, and now they're living with it forever, convincing themselves that it's love, and not a regret. And you start wondering why you try so many times when it's supposed to be magic. And magic doesn't happen to everyone.

Really, if this love thing is really what it's all made up to be, then maybe we should stop all the gestures and just start talking about feelings, yeah? I like you. I don't love you, I think, because if I say that things get really awkward and it will crush me more.

In the end, I'm telling you this because nothing lasts forever. And since nothing lasts forever - this feeling, this friendship, everything - I might as well tell you. We'll drift apart anyway, so might as well do it now, because having you around hurts me as much as the thought of not having you around.

You. I like you. Now what?

Red hair

2011-08-25T22:42:00.000+08:00

I was at ATC with my mom a few hours ago. The plans was, I'd treat her to dinner, she'd buy some groceries, and pick up my brother from school. But the grocery shopping didn't happen, and I didn't find any magazines worth reading on a long weekend in Baguio, so we left for the school early.

Walking out of the mall, my mom pointed at someone in one of the nearby restaurants. "Niko, tignan mo," she said. "Red yung hair."

It did not quite register early enough, because I looked at someone else the first time. Nothing extraordinary there, I thought. And then I realized she was pointing elsewhere, and so I turned to my left, and there she was. A girl. With red hair. And Melanie Moore glasses.

Fine, maybe the hair wasn't so red. It was bright red, but not entirely red. I think I saw some remaining black strands, or so I thought under the slightly gloomy lighting in the restaurant where she was. The first thought I had was, well, quite obvious. "Nobody pulls off red hair like Allison," I thought.

And then I looked closer. And then she looked at me. Yeah, I'm quite obvious that way. I wonder how many awkward situations I unknowingly put myself in just to get a closer look at things?

To make things more awkward, it was Jill. I was actually looking at Jill.

"Sabi ko na nga ba eh," I told her. Funny I thought that, since a second ago I didn't think it was her. After all, I did have that thought earlier on.

And then, as if in automatic, I went closer to her and I started pointing at her and saying things I can't remember. I know, I passed off as rude, but I always acted like that, like, "see, I knew this would happen!" even if I didn't know it would happen. Even if I've seen Jill tweet about being on ATC for the past few months, for reasons I never quite grasped. Okay, I certainly said something along the lines of "I knew it was you," and then there was me insisting on the Allison angle, as if that's all that I thought about. In hindsight, I looked pathetic.

All she did was smile and wave. I really looked pathetic.

We've known each other for five years and she never ages. And I swear it's not the red hair. I don't remember her wearing red hair before, though. It was always pink. Or whatever.

While I was thinking all of that, my mom went to Jill and told her that, well, she saw her with red hair and thought I would be interested. Typing those words now, I think my Allison-by-default mindset has become a stereotype of mine. And then we walked past her and her company.

"Jill. La Salle."

"Friend mo?"

As if in automatic, I gave my default answer.

"Blockmate."

For a lack of heroes

2011-08-21T14:00:00.002+08:00

Today marks 28 years since Ninoy Aquino, the head of the opposition against then president Ferdinand Marcos, was assassinated. Which means today marks the one day of the year when his story is retold - when newspapers publish front page articles about the man from the perspective of, say, his doctor, or one of the guards when he was a political prisoner, or maybe his colleague at The Manila Times?

Now, I don't mind these stories. It's fascinating reading these historical pieces - I read the newspaper a lot, and even I will admit that I learn more reading about events from way, way back than reading about events from the day before. And I don't have anything against the man himself. Of course, I wasn't alive when he was fatally shot at the tarmac of what was then known as the Manila International Airport, and I wasn't alive when he delivered his many speeches denouncing Marcos' iron-fisted rule, but I know that he's a good man, and if not for him, we would be a little worse off. His son, of course, is a completely different thing altogether.

But I'm not going to write about that. It's going to be simpler than that, for a change.

So today's newscasts will have a bunch of interviews with relatives of Ninoy Aquino. If not his daughters, then maybe the nieces and nephews he didn't see grow up. It's been always like that every year. At first, I thought if the Aquinos would once want to mark the death of their patriarch quietly, but I figured it's impossible. They have perhaps surrendered the right to mark the occasion quietly, because whether they like it or not, the Aquinos are of the Filipinos and for the Filipinos.

And then I thought, don't we have a modern-day equivalent to Ninoy Aquino? Will we still mark his martyrdom in thirty years' time? Don't get me wrong - I'm not suggesting we forget everything he did - but will we still have interviews with anybody who's connected to Ninoy in thirty years' time? Will we still watch them tell the same stories we've heard over the past two, almost three, decades? Will it reach the point that it's all just a holiday to look forward to, and nothing else, despite the many attempts to remind us kids - oh, us kids, we who do not have any idea, and will not have any idea - of all the things Ninoy did? Like it did to Jose Rizal? To Andres Bonifacio? To whoever else is in a paper bill?

Have our leaders gone from noble beings to opportunists? Have we gone from (relatively) noble beings to opportunists? Or have we all blown everything out of proportion?

"Governor Zaldy Ampatuan, gusto maging state witness!" my TV blared.

Sam's spam scam

2011-08-12T17:02:00.002+08:00

I remember what Asia and I talked about a few years back, about people we know who aren't on the yearbook. Looking back, I thought, they were up to something.

Yesterday afternoon I got a text message from some guy. He apparently got my number from the DLSU yearbook. He was texting me to let me know of a wonderful opportunity to earn money while working at home, or something. Actually, I didn't read his entire message, not because I already knew it was spam (I don't know the guy, duh) but because he started off the message by appealing to my emotions.

"Please read this message with an open heart and an open mind..."

Options, delete, yes.

And then there's the fact that his text message was really, really, really long. It was so long, I think the mobile network decided to split it into five or six parts. Maybe seven. The first part ("an open heart and an open mind") came to me first, but the next message that came was the penultimate part, which supplied his email address - which wasn't complete. And then the second part came. The middle bit never quite materialized.

So imagine this. The guy decided to promote his get-rich-quick scheme by texting a very long text message - let's say it's seven parts, and let's say it costs a peso a part - to every number in the yearbook. Or, let's be conservative - he texted everyone who had Latin honors. I know of the powers of unlimited texting, but that costs a lot.

This isn't the first time someone used my DLSU identity to sell me something. I remember this guy who allegedly pulled my email from the DLSU database to sell me a house, not that I wanted to move out. And it's definitely not the first time some stranger texted me with some opportunity or whatever. My mobile's on a postpaid plan, and my father theorized that someone from my mobile network decided to give my number, and a bunch of others, to some spammer for money. Or maybe it's the raffles I've been asked to join. My week is never complete without someone offering me a low-interest car loan. Again, like I need to get a car.

But that's nothing compared to what I've been getting lately. The guy's very persistent - perhaps too persistent to the point of being absolutely stupid.

His name - ehrm, her name - is Sam. She, supposedly, is a 22-year-old based in Bacolod. She, supposedly, is a scholar of the University of St. La Salle in Bacolod. She supposedly has participated in several beauty pageants, and supposedly no longer has any parents. She supposedly has scored an interview with some big company here in Manila, but she can't pay for the flight, so here she is, texting me, a guy she doesn't know, asking me if I could help her.

"Gagawin ko po kahit anong gusto ninyo makarating lang ako ng Maynila," the text message went.

I don't know the person, so I immediately file it as spam, with other messages as "natanggap mo na ba ang package na pinadala ko?" or "anak, ito ang tita mo sa abroad, eto na ang bagong roaming number ko!" But the way he - ehrm, she - sends these text messages is funny.

Message one is a message built to tug my heartstrings, and perhaps my nether regions. She's Sam, she has this interview, she can't afford a ticket, she'll do anything. And then, this: "may [picture] and supporting [documents] po ako sa [insert website here], baka sakali makatulong po yung infos [sic]."

Message two is a biodata of sorts. Name: Sam. Age: 22. Birthdate: I don't remember. Parents: both deceased. Experience: beauty pageants. Picture: [insert website here].

So, if he - she - can't afford to buy a ticket to Manila, but can afford to pay a web designer, or at least pay for monthly web hosting and an Internet domain... actually, multiple domains, since in the few weeks he's been texting me, the web address seems to be different each and every time. No, I haven't seen how good the web designer was, because I don't want my PC infected with spyware.

Also, there was this one time when I got a flash message - you know, the messages that just pop up as notifications rather than regular messages - saying the same thing. This guy's got money.

A lesson on road rage

2011-08-01T18:04:00.003+08:00

I'm not the best driver in the world, so I tend to get excited when I manage to make my way around some moderately-confusing road situations. Say, yesterday, a rainy Sunday, where the slippery roads and the weekend crowd converge to make a guy like me quiver.

Why was I on the road anyway? All I wanted was to get a haircut and buy myself a toothbrush. (And, as it turned out, a David Cook CD, a copy of GQ with Mila Kunis on the cover, and two packs of Yakult.) And I was stuck at home for quite a while now, so I somehow itched to get out. So I was surprised when my dad virtually allowed me to use the car to head to the mall. I've done it before, but the gap between then and now doesn't mean I'm a really good driver now. But I'm getting a bit better.

So there I was, driving along Alabang-Zapote Road, dealing with road works (they still exist) and slower than usual vehicles and the fact that I'm on the innermost lane when I'm supposed to be turning right. I was a bit wary, really, because who knows what might happen? Filipino drivers are civilized for the most part, but when worst comes to worst, things get pretty bad quickly. Which goes for everybody else, I presume, but then again, I've never driven a car in Singapore.

I was at the intersection, and the traffic enforcer was waving at us, asking us to move. The traffic light did say go, so I stepped on the pedal and went, slowly veering to the outermost lane so I could turn right with ease. I somehow did it.

I know, I know, the situation isn't the end of the world, but I found myself making a fist pump. I was quite glad.

I tend to talk to myself while driving. It's like I have my own driving instructor, keeping things in check. "Check your rear mirror, Nicksy," I said, and I knew nobody was approaching behind me, so I changed lanes, flicked on the signal lights, and turned right. That was easy. "Sometimes you just know what you're doing," I say, and then I flick on the signal light again, and turn left. And then I'm grinning.

But I'm not the best driver in the world. I still struggle with a few things. Sure, "who doesn't?" but people my age are better drivers than me. With their own cars. I'm just driving my dad's car, the one he got from the place he works with, the one I've been driving for the past year or so, whether it's a trip to the car wash or a trip to my relatives whenever my parents are out. Add to that the fact that I'm not the most patient guy in the world, and the fact that when things get so bad, I literally tremble.

It was a Sunday. A rainy Sunday. And a Sunday where families set out to watch Captain America. Simply said, there's little parking to be found.

"Full parking na po, ser," the lady that gives the parking tickets told me. "Iikot po ba kayo o aatras?"

"Iikot ako," I said, and I went in the parking lot, hoping to see some slot open up for me.

I've been in this situation before. A couple of months back, when my parents were in Europe, I had to buy some groceries, and being the only guy who can drive, I set out to the mall to do my errands. I went to two full parking areas before finding a third with one empty slot that I can use, which means I had to deal with a bunch of other drivers with their hazard lights on, waiting for that one driver to leave, so they can take that slot as their own. And me going around, being as vigilant as I can, looking for a slot I can use. Oh, and that one foreign family who stared at me as if I was a killer when I decided to back up and leave that parking lot. Those entitled bitches.

It's funny how some people manage to make things about race. Say, Phillip Sheppard and his "nigger" epithet back on Survivor: Redemption Island. Me, I manage to make things about class. It's always about people feeling more entitled than others. It's always about people who use their status or their connections to get their way, whether it be a job or a parking slot.

I was in my fourth parking lot, and I was getting pissed off. The construction work at the Alabang Town Center - more mall, less parking! - was getting to me, and the fact that cars who came after me manage to get slots before me was pissing me off. Even worse, I found a slot, only to have some vehicle come from out of nowhere and take it. Welcome to Alabang, Nicksy. You're surrounded by people who live in that posh subdivision behind you. They get everything because they must.

"Fine, get that slot, you motherfucking asshole," I said the first time.

"Fine, get that slot, you motherfucking asshole," I said the second time.

"Motherfucking asshole," I said the third time.

I spent 45 minutes looking for parking, until I finally found a slot, somewhere much farther than either the barber shop or the grocery. Not a good scenario, since it's a rainy day and I don't have an umbrella. But it's a fairly empty parking lot, which meant I can practice my reverse parking without worrying too much about maneuvering too much - I don't want to be stressed more, like the last time I struggled to park because some SUV, possibly from some rich, entitled Alabang resident, wasn't parked properly. So, go past your slot a little bit, hit reverse, turn your steering wheel to the left, and slowly back up. The next thing I know, I was aligned perfectly, but I thought I still had some way to go, since my hood hasn't aligned with the SUV beside me yet. So, I looked back, and then at my rear mirror, and slowly backed up.

Thud.

Bullet points on a basketball game

2011-07-24T15:12:00.003+08:00

I never watched a lot of live basketball. Sure, I watch some on TV when I feel like it, but I've only watched a basketball game in the face twice in my life. The first was when I was nine or ten years old, I think, when my dad brought me and my sister to an MBA game, where the Laguna Lakers lost to the Socsargen Marlins. The second was last night.

Similarly, I've never been to the Araneta Coliseum often. Yes, I was a DLSU student who's never watched a Green Archers game live. I've only been there twice. The first was during the Vertical Horizon concert. The second was last night.

In case you still didn't get it, I don't follow basketball much. Which perhaps makes me what Krizzie describes as a poser. But when I was asked if I wanted tickets - the event dovetailed nicely with my brother's birthday - I figured, why not? It makes for a change.

I think the name "Araneta Coliseum" slides down the tongue well. I also think Manny Pangilinan loves to promote himself. Yes, he organized the event. Yes, he managed to rename the Araneta Coliseum as the Smart Araneta Coliseum. (Sorry, Globe; no events for you.) But the first leg of the Ultimate All-Star Weekend - where nine NBA players, including Kobe Bryant, Kevin Durant and Derrick Rose faced off against the PBA's finest - can be summed up in one sentence: Manny Pangilinan is god. The only thing he has to do is go to politics. To his credit, though, the capacity crowd were applauding him sincerely.

At least 15,000 people hate Mo Twister. That's judging from how loud the boos were when he came out to host the warm-up.

At least 15,000 people have forgiven Joseph Estrada. He was seated at courtside, and when the cameras focused on him, the crowd chanted, "Erap! Erap! Erap!" He gave everyone a wave. I wondered if he's our version of Jack Nicholson.

I was probably the only one who wanted the local players to win. Sure, I get the awesomeness of having nine NBA players - and not fading ones at that - go to the Philippines to play ball, but I just wanted to see the PBA players whoop their asses, for one. Everybody else was loudly booing the PBA players when they first came out to the court, leading James Yap to quip, "idol natin silang lahat, so sana mag-cheer din kayo sa amin."

Everybody was starstruck. Seeing Rabeh al-Hussaini come out to the court with a sketchpad was understandably adorable, especially when he started asking the NBA players for an autograph. The organizers were actually stopping him from doing so. Later, we saw the referees take photos with the players, too.

It was a no-contest. The NBA players (I refuse to call them the Smart All-Stars, since Manny Pangilinan is not my god) won easily, 131-105. But in the beginning it looked like it would be close... but then again, that was Arwind Santos' doing. He scored the first six points for the locals, leading me to quip that it's the NBA versus Arwind Santos. Which looks nice in a headline. What doesn't look nice is when you factor in the guy who brought this really loud horn and decided to distract any PBA player who's on the free throw line.

Unexpectedly, I ended up being this close to a childhood crush. I don't know if anybody remembers Patricia Ann Roque from ABS-CBN's ATBP. Now she's a TV5 reporter who found my dad wearing a Lakers jersey, who ended up interviewing his colleague who watched with us. I was seated beside him. I expect some ribbing from my cousin.

Krizzie is right. I am a poser. Or not. But I felt a bit out of the water last night. It was a good game, and we managed to smuggle our DSLR - a mean feat considering how Karla fared with her point-and-click that only looks like a DSLR the last time we were there. And while I don't still understand why the Philippines loves basketball that much, well, I guess that is the point.

"I'm Misha Balangue, director of Oliver's Apartment..."

2011-07-22T18:42:00.000+08:00

I was worried that I'd be the first one to get to the CCP. That'd mean I'll be the one getting tickets for the whole group, which was already down one: Y2K had to pull out at the very last minute because she had to stay at the office. That'd also mean I'll have to contact Misha, who got all of us free tickets - my concern was, I thought she changed her phone number and, when the time comes that I have to ask her for tickets, I'd be calling nobody.

"Sucks," Y2K said. "I'll watch on Sunday na lang." It was followed by what apparently was Misha's phone number, which I apparently still had.

I did get to the CCP first. I wasn't that surprised, since I came from home, while everybody else came from wherever they're working. I found myself a bit overwhelmed by the crowd that came to watch the films featured in this year's Cinemalaya. The last time I attended was three years ago; I was surrounded by familiar faces from DLSU, as well as actors, filmmakers, or whoever was in between them. This time, well, nothing's changed, but it all felt alien to me, perhaps because I was no longer a student who was required to watch these films; I'm not a civilian showing support for a friend.

I didn't have to call Misha. She found me.

"How are you?" she said, after a quick hello hug.

"Fine," I said.

"Tickets are available at the counter," she said, pointing at the box office.

I wasn't exactly clear what she meant, so I sent a text message to Mae, Arlene and Kimmy - three people whose numbers I was sure I still had. I spent the next thirty minutes taking the scenery in. Filmmakers talking to filmmakers, students talking to students, and me, looking out the front entrance of the main theater, holding the barely-noticeable scar in my left elbow in the process. And then I'd hear some of the ushers talk about the tickets Misha reserved.

Yep, that's pull. I was, after all, watching her short film. Oliver's Apartment - about a male Emma Pillsbury whose gets something in the mail - is competing this year. When I first heard the news, a few months ago from Mae, I instantly remembered one of the few online conversations we had, one during my last term in DLSU, when she was this close to dropping her business courses and pursuing films instead. (I remember it because I wrote about it.) Since then, she apparently took up filmmaking in New York, a fact made obvious by the Big Apple-ness of her short, if not the fact that her actors are American. Or the end title that said "NYU Intensive Filmmaking".

Music started playing in the lobby. I still remember what it means: time to take your seats. I got my ticket - individually labeled and properly spelled, although she calls me Henrik and she wrote Niko instead - and decided to take my seat. I did not get a reply from anyone.

"Hi," she said from the stage. "I'm Misha Balangue, director of Oliver's Apartment."

I realized why she had to wear a lot of make-up. Theater lights.

"My cast couldn't be here tonight... I hope you enjoy watching this film as much as we enjoyed making it. Thank you!"

The shorts package - which includes a dystopian slow-burn and a black-and-white flicker - was over in an hour, a full hour earlier than I expected. It took me ten minutes to see a familiar face - Jed's - and it took me five more minutes to track him down from the crowds.

"Did you see anybody else?" I asked him when I finally did.

"You saw Misha?" he answered. "She had to leave early. Dinner daw."

"Yeah, I only saw her, and nobody else."

Turns out only the two of us made it.

"No!" Y2K replied. "Kimmy and Iel left the office long ago!"

"We didn't see them! And they didn't reply."

"Oh no. They could be stuck in traffic. Lakas ng ulan, eh."

"Maybe. Texted them anyway. Sana mag-reply."

"Aids replied. They're just parking now. Yikes. I'll tell them you got the tix."

"Tapos na eh."

It was a communication breakdown of sorts. The mobile phone jammers at the CCP are so good, you can't get a decent signal even after you've left the theater. For thirty minutes, apparently, they were trying to call me. All that time, I was outside the side entrance, crossing the road and going back, trying to call Mae to no avail, apparently because I was calling the wrong number. So much for assurances.

"Niko, we're at Teriyaki Boy in Harbour Square."

At eight o'clock, finally, familiar faces.

I ended up crashing dinner for six - Aids, Arlene, Ian, Kimmy, Mae and Marielle. They ended up, by accident, paying for my dinner. I ended up paying (I think) for the bouquet of roses they were supposed to give Misha, a plan that would've worked if not for the fact that they only caught the tail-end of Hazard. Then again, Arlene had a pen, Mae had a notepad, and Aids had Misha's home address; the seven of us ended up writing congratulatory notes, and Mae, being the advertising art director, did the drawing.

"We're very proud of her," Arlene said. "After thinking so long of dropping her [commerce] course..."

All throughout, I was feeling proud myself, that I was able to pick up on almost everything they were talking about, when in theory I am terribly out of place. I didn't really have to worry, because we were all proud of a friend's achievement. Except for the fact that I got there on time to watch it.

I decided to hitch a ride with Arlene, since I wanted to spend as less money as possible on a cab which would bring me to my dad's cocktails at the Makati Shangri-La. Mae and Marielle, who was going down somewhere in Makati's fringes, were with us. We were stuck in traffic along Vito Cruz, when Arlene had Mae read a text message she got from a colleague of hers. Seven basic truths, or something.

"Number three: Hindi ka puwedeng huminga ng nakalabas ang dila."

Impossible. The three of us at the back of the car tried, and work.

"Number four: Sinubukan mong gawin ang number three."

Arlene was having a fit of laughter. A pretty serious one. Marielle and Mae realized they were duped. Me? Of course - more so, since I was trying hard to sound smart, I ended up doing it first. A minute later, we headed out to deliver the package, we talked about how expensive going on the Skyway every day is, and I thought a bit about whether to feel too close or too distant. I couldn't decide.

Misanthrope

2011-07-20T17:35:00.002+08:00

A hater of humankind.

I expected the word misanthrope to have a slightly more convoluted - nay, slightly more academic - definition than that. A hater of humankind. It's to the point, but it's quite harsh, to quote the people who prefer to use the word dislike to express their, umm, hate of certain things.

It's one of those words I never encountered until I was forced to confront its meaning. Yes, I'm on the verge of going there, but I won't take that one last step.

Asia and I were having this conversation about weird, quiet people - there! - which led to our discussion of the word. I actually was the first one to throw the word into the pan.

"She's generally a misanthrope," I said. "I wouldn't know."

"Wow," she said. "Never thought I've encountered a misanthrope before."

"I write a lot, but I never even learned of the term 'misanthrope' until I met her."

"Ganun? Maybe we should stop talking about misanthropes. It's not healthy."

"Interestingly, she has friends."

Perhaps the dictionary definition is too harsh. A hater of humankind? Maybe it should be one who dislikes humankind. Maybe one who dislikes certain qualities of humankind. I'll admit, I latched on to the term when Icka introduced it to me because at the time it just sounded so appealing, but something just didn't feel right. You see, if you absolutely hate everyone with a passion, you should be spending your days sleeping, and your nights crawled up in your bed, in the dark, going existential on yourself. But everything wasn't consistent with my people-are-ganging-up-on-me mindset at the time.

Perhaps the right definition should be one with a deep distrust of humankind. You know, you can still deal with people, but you approach everything with an unhealthy dose of suspicion, a belief that everyone is out to screw with you.

With that in mind, well, perhaps I am a misanthrope myself.

Cue my stock response: I wasn't always that way. I was very friendly when I was a kid, and I still am friendly now. But along the way, people bullied me for no reason. Along the way, people decided that I wasn't worth being a friend. Along the way, people decided I was too weird for them. And all that made me become more suspicious - more guarded is a euphemism, but I'll say more suspicious instead - of people. Nobody is ever concerned about me; all they want is to see me dead.

I was really cranky last night. I was watching the news and found myself complaining more than usual. People complain about billboards and then set new ones up. People complain about the existence of zoos but they don't know what they're talking about, mostly because they're elitists with their heads up their asses. You get the idea. I was just complaining about everything being so wrong.

Maybe I am confused. Maybe I am not a misanthrope after all; maybe I'm just cynical, which is something I openly admit to, and something that isn't universally considered as terribly wrong... yet.

But I had that conversation with my mother again. I think my mother hates me. Or, at least, I think my mother hates the way I think. "Galit ka sa mundo?" she'd always ask me, and then she'd go, "ang bigat-bigat siguro ng dinadala mo," in a very sarcastic tone, like she just wants to get rid of you or something. Or maybe I feel that way because she never really listens to my complaints, because she always excuses herself from my rants by saying that I've said it over and over again, when in fact there's always something new for me to be annoyed at.

"Alam mo," she'd say, "magbago ka naman. Hindi lahat ng tao magbabago para sa'yo."

Palagi na lang ganyan, I'd think. Ako na lang dapat nagbabago.

When you get dealt with that way, pretty much every single time, you will have the urge to crawl back to whatever shell you came from and just stay there. What's the use? you'd ask. I tried my best and nothing ever happens. People go on about working hard to get what you want but, alas, some people are just very lucky, and some people are the complete opposite. Some people get a favorable response, and then there are people like me, who's traumatized enough to consider himself a misanthrope. One who has a deep mistrust of humankind, and the way they build relationships, and get ahead in life, and everything else in between.

And yet here I am, hoping to make friends, trying to make friends, despite this deep-seated suspicion that all that I do - all that I ever do - will end in nothing. Which happened many times before.

Perhaps I should just settle for cynical.

I should be gay because...

2011-07-17T14:35:00.000+08:00

Girls will not be able to break my heart anymore.

When I decide that I like someone so much that she deserves a slot in my handful of involuntary daydreams, it starts off a vicious cycle that ends with me hating myself for letting it happen all over again.

Sure, something may be completely off with my plans - the worst being that I never really leave the bench and enter the court - but my inability to actually act on my feelings doesn't mean I deserve to get hurt. I know what I can and cannot do. I cannot be like everyone else, or most of everyone else. I cannot come up to a girl and say I like her, more so in the past five years or so.

You'll say that I bring all the pain on myself.

Sure. I like you, you see. I see you spend more time with everybody else. I cannot have you for just one day. Okay, I did. Well, I almost did. And then you said no.

I know what I can and cannot do, and while I cannot have you, I can be happy with you. Even for that one moment. But I can't.

Why not look around, then? Lots of fish in the sea. But I'm growing old and, along with it, I'm getting more cynical. Then I'd probably be more outright with it - no, I actually am - and in the future, I'll probably give up on girls altogether. It's just not worth getting hurt over and over again. Maybe I should turn gay and go for guys again? It should be a different experience. But I guess the pain will still be the same, if not worse.

The hierarchy

2011-07-12T10:33:00.001+08:00

I got a Google+ invite from Paw yesterday.

Technically I begged her for one.

I told myself a few days ago that I wouldn't mind being late on that bandwagon. After all, it took me ages to get on Facebook. (It took me ages to get on Friendster, even.) And then I realized that I'm being left behind by the most vocal proponents of "everybody else" so I decided to, well, to hell with it - jump on the bandwagon, see where it goes.

I wasted some time yesterday finding people and adding them in circles. I only found ten people - it is a beta version, after all - and proceeded to categorize them according to how I met them. (That's all I'm going to say. In theory, you're not supposed to know which circle people put you into.) Google+ is best described as a Facebook/Twitter hybrid: you don't need to allow people to follow you, but you can limit your posts to certain people. Circles, in this case. So I can just add people and not wait for a confirmation - it's pretty much liking a Facebook fan page as opposed to adding someone.

(Gah, I sound like a social media maven. I wonder how many hits this blog entry will get?)

The circles thing is what sets Google+ apart from the rest. Another attempt to replicate real-life conversations. You won't tell your boss your deepest, darkest secrets, right? Same way you won't tell the people you just know, but aren't close with, your deepest darkest secrets. Also mirroring that reality is the fact that - like I said - you're not supposed to know which circle people put you into. For all you know, you treat them as a friend and they just assigned you to "People I Don't Give A Shit About". It's not like Facebook, where - unless you fiddled around with your privacy settings - everybody sees everything you post.

Yes, I'm being paranoid about this.

Once upon a time, everybody was either a friend or an enemy. Either you were nice to the guy or you weren't. Either you were told "friends tayo!" or "hindi tayo bati!" Sure, it kills off the nuances of best friends and barkadas, but it made for easier decisions.

As we grew up, these nuances begged to be noticed. So you had best friends, you had close friends, and you had friends you are nice to but never really bothered spending time with, because life wouldn't let that happen. You had acquaintances who just happen to be there. You had frenemies (whatever they called that at the start of the millenium) and you had enemies. And then you have your nemeses.

And then you find yourself having to deal with all these connections and all these places in your hierarchy. Sure, in theory you just let things be. And sure, this is me being paranoid. You put people in certain positions, and then they shift away from it, to the left or to the right, and you end up resisting it, because you know it's going to ruin the balance you meticulously maintain. I know we're supposed to be best friends, but your actions suggest otherwise, you'd go. I'd like to keep things the way they are. But you, on the other hand...

The end result: you have friends that don't treat you as friends, and you have enemies that don't treat you as enemies.

And you don't know which one's which.

I was rereading this article off the copy of The Guardian my dad brought home from London last year. It pretty much talks about the slow burn I was outlining in the earlier paragraphs: the time when you shift from one position to another, without any announcement, and without you being prepared. Someone makes the decision, and you're left out cold. And you're left wondering why you even bother honoring the agreement.

It's pretty much like trying to post a reply on a friend's Facebook post, only to find that you cannot post a reply, while your other friends can. You get frustrated, and you're forced to move on.

And then you realize that you're doing the same thing, and others are going through the same things you do - only you blow it up, because you're paranoid.

Why do you feel so entitled? What makes you so fucking important, Nicksy?

The president is out

2011-06-30T17:04:00.001+08:00

As I write this, Noynoy Aquino is giving his so-called Ulat sa Bayan, another self-given chance to tell the citizens of the Philippines all that he has accomplished since he assumed the presidency exactly one year ago.

I'm in a bit of a blogging rut, but I've always planned to write about this very occasion, so I decided to turn on the TV and hope that whatever he says inspires me to become a piss-poor attempt at being a political analyst. But there's the problem: I cannot be a political analyst. I cannot see things objectively at this point. I have this deep dislike for Noynoy, and his speech - or at least, the two minutes of it that I caught - illustrates why.

His speeches tend to revolve around a few things. He'll illustrate why he's best suited for the position, by talking about how he didn't plan on running for the presidency two years ago. He'll say he didn't plan to take on the monster that was a government riddled with corruption. Maybe he'll invoke the spirit of his mother, Cory Aquino, the woman in the middle of the first People Power revolution in 1986, the one that kicked out Ferdinand Marcos from a two-decade dictatorship and restored democracy. After all, it was after her death when all eyes went on Noynoy - and, just like that, he became a viable successor to Gloria Arroyo.

By "viable successor" I don't mean someone who will continue PGMA's not-so-stellar run. Sure, in the nine years before Noynoy, the Philippines saw economic growth - I don't think anybody can fudge with the figures the authorities have been supplying every quarter. Our GDP is growing comfortably, for one. The problem is, of course, that not everybody benefits from this growth. The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer, or so the cliché goes. And some government officials get more powerful, not the least of which is Arroyo herself, who was linked to several political scandals, almost all of them involving corruption. Either she pocketed funds from certain government agencies, or her husband did, or her closest allies did. Most damning of all, she was accused of stealing the elections in 2004 - a charge that still isn't resolved, long after her main rival, actor Fernando Poe, Jr., passed away.

Noynoy ran with the premise of being completely different from PGMA. Or so his party claimed. The Liberal Party initially wanted to field Mar Roxas, but then they realized that he never had a chance of winning, so they decided to ride the public wave of sympathy surrounding Cory's death. Noynoy became their presidential candidate, and won an overwhelming majority. Roxas gave way, decided to run for vice president, and still lost anyway.

In my mind, these circumstances didn't make Noynoy the right guy to take charge of our country. He came here because he managed to hit the Filipinos in the gut. Nako, mabait si Cory, sigurado mabait din si Noynoy. It makes sense, but it doesn't hold much weight. But I decided to give him a year.

To Noynoy's credit, that one year saw the political arena be a little more peaceful. Maybe we're still getting to grips with somebody else in charge after almost a decade of PGMA, but it's nice to see the newscasts discuss how much support the controversial reproductive health bill will garner from Congress as opposed to who's filing an impeachment complain when. Then again, "peaceful" doesn't exactly mean "quiet": one kind of noise gave way to another, and that was Noynoy getting to grips with him being in charge. It was very, very noisy.

He isn't the most experienced politician ever. No biggie, you'd say. It means he's untarnished, unlike that Arroyo bitch. And yes, it's fine for him to surround himself with his closest associates - to paraphrase him, you'd want people in the same wavelength as you to work with you. But in many instances it seems he's relying more on his associates than on his judgement, which I'm sure he has. And, recently, there's been some noise about the people he's put in position - his friends and schoolmates and shooting buddies, who are not always the best people for the job. The DILG's Rico Puno was in the hot seat during the Manila hostage crisis in August. The LTO's Virginia Torres was in the hot seat when allegations corruption in her agency surfaced. His response to these and others: "I stand by them," and "kasi naman kayo, mga taga-media, puro bad news ang gusto ninyong i-report."

But what else is there to report? I don't expect Noynoy to instigate many changes in his first year in office. He did say that he's thinking of more long-term solutions to our issues, and I respect that. But it never seemed that way. You don't see him talking about these solutions - all he talks about are the same old things. I'm different from PGMA. Unlike her, I'm genuinely concerned for all of you. Unlike her, I won't steal money from our coffers - why would I? I didn't want to run in the first place, but you wanted me here, so I don't really have much of a choice now, right? Anyway, that should be enough. She's gone. I'm here now. It's all fine.

Repeated, ad infinitum.

Oh, right, there's his constant flouting of the daang matuwid line, perhaps the most succinct way of putting everything I just wrote in italics a couple of paragraphs back. "Narito na tayo sa daang matuwid," he'd say, often, like he's still in the campaign trail - it is his election slogan, after all - and not like he's actually the president now. It seems that he's convinced that his mere presence makes everything better.

Sure, he's justified in doing that. When he assumed office it seems everybody was more confident about our country's chances. But it's been a year, and right now he should start working - no, he should already have a few things on his mind - no, a lot of them. He shouldn't just be thinking of them. He should be doing them. Instead, all he does is communicate the same old things, over and over again. Call himself a gift from heaven. Call his predecessor evil incarnate. Say that things are going to be just fine. You'll hear those words in the news, pretty much everyday, in between rising prices, "world news" and rumors of whoever the president is dating nowadays.

The honeymoon period has long passed, although Noynoy is lucky his trust ratings - which he says isn't important to him - are still higher compared to other presidents. But all he's done in the past year is revel in what he just did, which is pretty much what today's speech is all about. What has he accomplished? He became president.

Hopefully by now he knows that his position isn't a nuisance but a privilege. Not a privilege, but a massive responsibility, especially considering we are a country who thinks dole-outs is the best way to help the poor.

Hopefully by now he knows that the cult of personality surrounding him isn't enough to sustain change in the country. Being an Aquino isn't enough to effect long overdue change in this country, the same way being an Arroyo isn't enough to make you run for the hills. It's being a hard worker, a dedicated worker, a smart worker, one who's willing to sacrifice his love life, his third-hand Porsche and his privacy to make the most of his time.

Hopefully by now he knows that he only has five years left, and he has to stop focusing on communicating the same old clueless rhetoric, and actually start doing something, so that when he decides to deliver another Ulat sa Bayan - different from his State of the Nation Address, I must note - it won't be the same old tripe we've heard him say during the campaigns, but instead, it would actually be something substantial.

Hopefully by now he knows that he cannot make a fool of the Filipino people - the very thing he's accusing his predecessor of doing, and the very thing he's doing right now. The same thing happened nine years ago. We kicked out a corrupt president, we thought everything will get better, and then, we're here again. We kicked out a corrupt president. We think everything will get better.

The difference is, I believe - I sincerely believe - that Noynoy is not capable of being corrupt. I just hope he is also not capable of being a lame duck.

Sir, it's time to go home and get to work.

We are the bad people

2011-06-22T16:39:00.001+08:00

This blog entry was supposed to be all about me being such a complaining old git.

I was reorganizing my links area (again) early this week and noticed that more people were blogging on Tumblr. All fine and good, except that I've seen my sister browse through her dashboard, often to amuse herself at what the people she follows have reblogged. I've taken a look sometimes, especially when she starts to laugh annoyingly, and all I see are reblogs. And more reblogs.

So, I thought, Tumblr isn't a blogging platform - it's just full of reblogs. Sure, there are the people who actually blog something, else there wouldn't be reblogs - but pretty much all of the content an ordinary user would see on the site is copied and pasted (okay, clicked, it's easier) from somewhere else.

"I started to get irked when I realized there was no self-reflection or self-production at all," Asia said.

"Amen," I answered. "It's blogging for lazy people. Very lazy people."

"I miss LJ days. Pa-spoil na pa-spoil yung generation."

"It only pays to be witty now, not creative. If you can retweet, why bother to think?"

"Yeah, true. 'Creativity' requires a bigger venue than here, no? Ewan, bakit ba kasi nagka-Tumblr. I sound like a grumpy lady."

"You're not alone. Also, it's much more complicated socially. Being 'creative' means a lot of things now, status-wise."

"Hindi lang kasi tayo Tumblr generation."

"Eh mga contemporaries natin, ganun."

To further prove that I sound like a complaining old git, I decided that I'm also a bit peeved at Facebook's like function. Sure, there are good intentions behind it: if you agree with what's said but you can't really add to the conversation, then just click on "like" and everything's fine. But people now tend to just click on "like" and nothing more. Or maybe it's me and my bruised ego, expecting people to answer when I've stirred some debate, only to see three likes.

And to make things worse, I'm actually part of my problem. I like something when I can't add anything substantial. Maybe I like too much, but I'm not like other people who like everything. (The latest Lola Techie ad: "like, like, like, like!") (Also, I know "like" is a verb, but not this kind of verb. Writing those sentences feel weird.) And I also retweet. "Does Bong Revilla believe anything that he says in his AMA commercial?" Jayvee asked. I agreed. I can't add anything. I retweeted. I'm not just a complaining old git. I'm a hypocrite.

I know getting retweeted makes for a good feeling. At least I make sense to someone, you'd say. So much, that she can't add anything to it. Maybe that's why people love posting inspirational crap on Twitter. You know, little nuggets of life wisdom that sounds more patronizing than inspiring - or maybe it's just me being cynical. Over the past few weeks I've seen one such tweet make the rounds of my timeline, and really, it makes a lot of sense. "Girls are like Barbie dolls," the thought goes. "You can play with them, you can dispose of them, but remember, real men don't play Barbie dolls."

Well, logically, it does make sense, but the punchline - that real men don't play with dolls - is painfully sexist, if not homophobic. But fine, surely the intentions behind it were good. The old git in me was irked to see that retweeted in three different days, by three (technically four) different girls, from three different sources. Goodbye, originality.

And then the old git in me decided that the issue is not attribution, but the idea itself. I've seen people tweet (retweet, actually) this many times before. Ladies, you deserve better. All the men out there are motherfuckers ready to use you and break your heart. Said differently in every instance, but the end thought is still the same: all of the men in the world will just break your heart, so, up yours!

Because we are the bad people, blah, blah, blah.

And you are much better than we are, blah, blah, blah.

I won't deny it. Men are capable of terrible things. I've seen men cheat on their girlfriends. I've seen men insult their girlfriends. I've not seen men abuse their girlfriends, although I'm more than sure it happens. It happens to wives, and girls who have not exactly said yes yet. We have broken your hearts. We get it.

But I've seen women cheat on their boyfriends. I've seen women insult their boyfriends. I've not seen women abuse their boyfriends - it's a fucking laughable idea, you'll say, I bet - but I'm quite sure it happens. It happens to husbands, and guys who have not exactly said yes yet. But since females are the more nurturing sex, and males are the more domineering sex, then logic states that we will hurt the weak people, the ones who cannot defend themselves, and have no choice but to submit.

"Are we always the bad ones? You can break our hearts and get away with it? Boo."

"True, but you guys just aren't so vocal about it," Janelle agreed.

Maybe I was being a complaining old git about the wrong things all along.

Falling down the rabbit hole

2011-06-18T17:52:00.000+08:00

The catch is, you tend to take things personally. Very personally.

See, you've made the perfect situation for yourself. Everything has, for some reason, fallen into place, and you believe - you genuinely believe - that all of this is what you need to keep yourself afloat. Nothing can take it away from you.

And then, somewhere along the way, it falls apart, and you feel like the world is pretty much going against you. Oh, damn it. Won't you give me this one time? Just this one time?

It's funny, how you take these things personally. It's that mix of awkwardness and anger. Actually, you're not angry. Maybe disappointment is more like it. But you don't really have the right to be disappointed. You see, nobody really owes you anything. It wasn't like it's critical. It wasn't like it's an earth-shaking thing, like that so-called Rapture that quickly became a pop culture buzzword. It's just you, latching your hopes on one thing, and one thing alone. The perfect situation for yourself. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing can take it away from you.

Still, nobody's stopping you from being disappointed - being genuinely disappointed, although that doesn't really cut it, because, of course, it's a mix, a confusing mix. Anyway, nobody's stopping you from being disappointed, so you start thinking, well, I didn't fuck this one up. You did. But you know that your logic doesn't carry much weight. But, what the heck, you prefer to feel disappointed. It happens. It's just you, latching your hopes on one thing, and one thing alone. The perfect situation for yourself. Nothing can go wrong. Nothing can take it away from you.

Then again, you never really had it in the first place. And you know that. You know that very well.

I hate it when I tell myself that I will not do the same mistakes that I did before. It's happened to me too many times. It goes well for a while, and then reality hits you - preferably kicks you in the ass, but that's me being filthy - and you realize that, all along, you're being delusional. I say I'm just lonely and desperate, but really, I'm just delusional. And I'm falling down the rabbit hole again. I thought I already learned from my mistakes. Heck, I managed not to do those mistakes for so long now. And here I am again, falling.

Stand around

2011-06-13T18:15:00.001+08:00

I never thought I'd carry a relatively long conversation with Miss Diaz. I was never in her classes; we only crossed paths during thesis orientations, thesis readings and thesis defense. Oh, and during our college recognition rites, a few days before our graduation, when I went up on stage ("cum laude!") and received a sash from her. She received me enthusiastically. I think there was a hug, even.

But there I was, talking to her, in front of a cinema, catching up. I would've asked her about how she is, but I knew the conversation would be all about me. I was the graduate - the Latin honors meant the chances of her remembering me was a bit higher - and she'd be inevitably curious about what I do for a living now.

"So where do you work?" she asked me.

"At home," I said, stopping myself from elaborating. "I'm a writer for an America-based entertainment website..."

"That's good!" she said. I could tell she was genuinely happy for me. "At least it's still close to [communication] arts."

There I was, perhaps the most insecure person in that graduating batch, getting some affirmation from the chair of the Communication Department. But she had a point, though. At least I still write for a living. I still communicate to an audience, albeit one made up of snarky American Idol fanatics. Some of us work for banks. The way she sees it, I'm better off, as opposed to my own opinion of myself.

"The downside is," I said, "I'm stuck at home. I do the same things every single day. It's a routine worse than school."

"Grabe ka naman," she replied.

"Kaya nga I took this opportunity to go out," I said. "I was thinking of wearing my Doy shirt--"

"No, no, no," she said. I was joking. I presumed she knew that. We were both laughing, and then she asked me whether I saw Miss Sibayan. Now she was also never my professor, which makes me question my credentials as a communication arts graduate of DLSU.

We were attending the premiere night of Sir Doy's second independent film, Paglipad ng Anghel. I first heard of it when I was still a student. I think it was during his retirement party (the same reason why I have the Doy shirts) when a montage of his best works was screened. He wrote many screenplays in the 70s and 80s; he made his directorial debut with Pepot Artista, only in 2005. Paglipad ng Anghel was represented by a little clip of a man rushing to a church altar, with angel's wings shooting off his back, and obviously struggling.

It was a screenplay he hasn't had a chance of filming until now, when DLSU agreed to produce the film and give him free rein. He began writing it in 1997, inspired by a story he heard from a friend of his - you must've read about it in the newspapers in the past few weeks. More than a decade later, it's a completed project, and I was attending the premiere night.

I almost didn't make it, actually. I first got wind of the event from Jackie, who posted a newspaper article on Facebook. It's finally coming out, I thought. I knew they were producing the film as far as two years ago - when Kat and I watched Eclipse together we were talking about that (and Ale's pregnancy). I was wondering what happened to it; last I heard it was set for an August release, but I'm not sure what happened in between.

Kat, of course, worked on the film. Inevitably the production would involve Lasallians in every aspect: apart from the fact that it topbills Sid Lucero (from CSB) and LJ Moreno (from the CED graduate program) most of the people behind the scenes were alumni. Kat, I think, was the production manager. Misha did art direction. Piyar, Neil, Maui, Malia - I didn't have to convince myself that I would watch. It's, more or less, a CAM105 production!

Catch was, tickets were only available on campus, and since I couldn't just go there, I scrambled to have someone buy them for me. Ale's brother is a DLSU student, so she offered to have him buy me tickets. But nothing came out of it, so I almost gave up any chance of watching the film - until Carmel called me the following day, saying she got me a complimentary ticket. I should've told her I owe her one.

Yes, a complimentary ticket. As if it's not enough to feel bad about not having to pay anything - all proceeds from the film will go to the One La Salle fund - it felt weird having to fall in line first. I was at the balcony. A few rows away from me were luminaries: Joey Reyes, Manny Castañeda, Mike Enriquez, Ricky Davao, Anita Linda, Norman Loteria. Then again, I should have prepared myself for it. It's the premiere. Some names will surface. And then, you've been to many premieres in your life. Nothing new.

There's one way to deal with these things: stick to the people that you know. Me, I've never really attempt to mingle with celebrities, unless circumstance tells me to. All I wanted was to catch up with some classmates and drop a word with Sir Doy. I was his student, after all. What I know about writing screenplays, I owe to him.

The thing with film premieres is, you see a lot of people around you, and not most of them are invited to the affair. Celebrity spotters. When the film ended there were a lot of people in front of the cinema entrance, perhaps waiting for a glimpse of Sid Lucero, member of the Eigenmann acting clan. That's for who I call "mere civilians". The Lasallian alumni - the Communication Department alumni - gathered around Mang Norms instead, asking to take photos of him.

He only had a bit role - he was an albularyo who scampered away after seeing an apparition from Joel Torre (si Andres, lumilipad!) convincing Sid's character, Gabby, to heal his sick cousin Dinay. Of course, us folks who know him as the grumpy guy operating the editing bay (or the equipment room, depending on the time frame) found it cool. "Si Mang Norms, artista na!" we'd exclaim. His name appeared in the credits and there was a louder-than-usual applause from the audience.

"Nakatulong ang pagiging kalbo ko," he quipped before the screening.

Sir Doy, on the other hand, was overwhelmed by well wishers. He hasn't really changed. He spoke to the audience before the screening, and he sounded like the teacher who gave away whatever he found in his house during film writing class - his last term as a full-time DLSU professor. He was insightful yet jolly. "Ang ilan sa inyo, nakikita ko, kumakain ng popcorn," he said. "Now, kung klase ko 'to, pagbabawalan ko kayo, but go ahead."

I managed to shake his hand a full thirty minutes after the film ended. I wanted to talk to him, but no words were exchanged. I wasn't sure if he recognized me. I'd like to think there were just a lot of well-wishers.

The rest of my post-premiere time, I spent standing around. Yes, I had classmates, but since they're part of the crew I expected them to run things their own way. Kat and Ale were there, and so was (Cinemalaya filmmaker - yes, really) Misha, and Piyar, and on-set "lovebirds" Neil and Maui. Of course, I was the outsider, standing around, laughing along - the difference was, I was a bit explicit with the fact that I was just, well, standing around.

"Well, that's what we do," Kat said. "Stand around."

They were actually waiting for Sid to come out of the theater. The younger members of the crew wanted a photo with him, and they waited quite a while, since the celebrity spotters just swarmed around him, with photo requests and signature requests and whatnot. He was almost on his way out when Maui managed to negotiate a photo op with his group. Sid quickly went bonkers, for lack of a better term.

"My girls!" he said. "How could I say no?"

He then proceeded to give the girls a smooch. And then he attempted to lick Neil's cheek. Inevitably, I ended up taking the photograph, further exasperating my mother, who was dismayed I didn't have a photo of myself from that night. Well, she doesn't know I was in another photograph, with the crew, and actress (and batchmate - we apparently share a lot of common friends) Steph Henares. ("Kasama ba ako?" I asked. "Oo!" she said, before setting up the shot.) Also, the fact that I was just supposed to stand around, like all the journalists and the fans and the well-wishers, waiting for a chance to say hi.

"Perhaps I may reply, if you are lucky"

2011-06-09T22:04:00.000+08:00

She has been gone for two weeks now.

I knew it would happen. In the few times we talked, she told me this much. "My life hangs on this," she said, more or less. "If I don't get this, I don't know what to do. Oh, please, can't they just tell me I'm not getting it?"

"What if you do?" I told her. "That'd be one hell of a new chance."

"Yeah," she said. "That'd be very, very fun. And then I'd invite you out and we'd hang out."

"That's impossible. Well, more or less impossible."

And then it happens. Funny thing is, I didn't really realize that it's happening until it did. We were even talking a few days ago, and then I got busy with a few things, and then it was over. I saw some signs. I knew I had to talk sense into her again, pretty much what I've been doing those past few weeks, but I knew I should let her be for a while. It happened before. She should be back.

She hasn't been back.

It's been two weeks. I remember sending a bunch of emails, not knowing it's going nowhere - I'm that slow - and then I stopped sending emails, and I find it a bit difficult, since there are so many stories I want to tell, stories that only she would get. I guess that's what I missed the most about her. She gets it.

So, yes, I should let her be for a while. And she should be back. But one of the things I hate the most is watching something or someone fade away. I can cut ties, but I can't let something fade away. Either it's forever or it's gone now. I'm a bit black-and-white that way. And then, there's a breaking point. You can only wait for so long.

Today, I tossed an email. I told her that, yes, I should let her be, but there's just this one story that I had to tell her. And to boot, I sent it to a different email address, since she has six and they all confuse me.

I got an automatic reply.

"Reach me at my other email address. Perhaps I may reply, if you are lucky."

I gave up.

New York

2011-05-31T17:44:00.000+08:00

There was a scene from last week's Glee season finale, where Will enters the room where the New Directions kids are, carrying seven boxes of pizza. "Real New York pizza," he claims, still driving home the fact that we are in New York, and not in Lima, Ohio (or, technically, a sound stage in Los Angeles).

"Ray's Pizza. Nice."

That's Jeany, my currently-on-hiatus friend from New York. She lives in an apartment in Times Square, which means she's seen (or at least was capable of seeing) the Glee cast shoot their admittedly patronizing musical number in the city.

"Real NYC pizza. Hah. Not."

I could blame it on her New York upbringing. After all, everybody who lives in New York pretty much frowns on anybody who lives outside its boundaries. And she lives in Manhattan, so she pretty much frowns on anybody who lives beyond the Hudson River, as well as that other river whose name I'm too lazy to search. But then again, she lives in New York City.

"Okay," I answered. "Define real NYC pizza."

"Thin crust, good mozzarella, just a little bit of charcoal. Brick oven is my fave."

I recalled that story while waiting for my order two days back at Yellow Cab. You look around the store, with photos of the New York skyline and names of relatively obscure (for the uneducated) landmarks in the city. And then there's the name. Yellow Cab. Supposed to remind you of the taxis that go around the city. Ironic since their billboards say "if you want a pizza, call a cab!" but the image beside it is of a guy in a scooter delivering pizza.

Of course, the idea is that their pizza is supposed to be New York-style pizza. But it doesn't have a thin crust, and they definitely don't bake it in a brick oven - that'd be expensive. Authentic? Close-enough imitation, perhaps - and I don't know how NYC pizza tastes like.

There's this other store, Brooklyn Pizza, that trades on the we-serve-New-York-style-pies idea as well. Only it's not on a thin crust, and it's chewy. And I'm not sure if I really taste a hint of charcoal, or industrial oven.

Sure, you'll say, it's not New York pizza but New York-style pizza, adapted to suit Filipino tastes, because eating crackers topped with mozzarella and pepperoni is weird even if Shakey's is doing well here. Now, that wasn't New York-style, but it had thin crust, and it used to serve beer until it wimped out to become a family restaurant. Well, it worked, because the place is always full with reuniting families, or grandparents celebrating their birthdays with the entire clan.

The same goes for Yellow Cab, but its crowd is different. You know, upper class families that don't give a damn whether they're eating out wearing their pajamas. The sort that always speak English. Yuppies who supposedly live the fast life. Students who cannot tolerate fast food. I'm not exactly any of those, but I like the food, and when I eat there it feels like I can speak English with a perfect American accent, without fumbling a single word. (Or maybe it's because I'm at the Alabang branch. The other branches, especially those located in more mass-friendly places, are empty.)

They are selling New York as an illusion. Want to feel successful? Want to feel like a hot-shot financial type? Want to feel like a happy-go-lucky Williamsburg hipster? Want some touch of grit on the side? Why not eat here? You know you cannot be an actual hot-shot financial type or an actual happy-go-lucky Williamsburg hipster. You're not born in the right place. You're not supposed to dream. So we'll just ease you into your failed ambitions, yes? For an hour you're not a wimp.

Or maybe I'm reading too much into it. Yes, I definitely am.

I ordered a 14-inch four-cheese pizza and two Charlie Chans. They said it'd take twenty minutes. I was seated there for forty. The order finally arrived, and I stood up to the counter, peeved. I thought of telling off the staff for being so slow on a Sunday. They failed. Maybe I could get an extra calzone.

"Here's your order, sir."

"Salamat," I said under my breath. I wimped out.

Chinatown

2011-05-23T17:26:00.000+08:00

I had this marvelous idea for a photo essay back in college: the life of a Luneta photographer. They still do it the old way: with film SLRs around their necks, they'd ply their wares around the park, hoping that a visitor would want to have their time in the park documented for posterity. But with digital cameras (and the instant photography experts that come with it) becoming more ubiquitous, their way of life is pretty much facing a dead end.

Imagine: me photographing these photographers, using an SLR loaded with black and white film, and developing it myself at our very own dark room. Genius, right? In hindsight, I flubbed that photo essay - I still went to Luneta to take photographs, and even got to talk to some of them, but I could've done a few things better. Maybe make it more cohesive, maybe follow one photographer for one whole day. I was just too lazy to make it right.

I remembered that story yesterday, when a photographer offered to take photos of me and my cousins. We were in a restaurant in Binondo, celebrating my grandfather's birthday in a different way than usual. We'd spend the weekend on a beach, usually, but this time around my grandfather wanted to invite some friends along. We settled for lunch.

I was confused. I thought he was one of my grandfather's friends. So we obliged, and the next thing we know, we had to fork fifty bucks per photograph. We reserved four tables in the restaurant, and the other three tables said no. I guess we were too hungry to even think of what's actually happening. Our table was, after all, made up of dining room warriors. We treated the lazy daisy as if it was a hindrance.

There are only a few places in Manila where these photographers ply their trade. Either that, or I haven't been around Manila. But the city I know from my college years is one populated by digital cameras and scalpers, and not old men carrying vintage cameras for a living. It strikes me how different two places can be. Taft Avenue, for one, is chaotic, judging from the frequency of restaurants opening to take the place of failed ones. It's modern (look up, there's the LRT) but it's behind the times (look up, there's the LRT). Chinatown, on the other hand, is a more complicated proposition: smaller roads, Chinese signs, a different atmosphere. And you'll have to remember that this was the center of business before Makati came along.

Earlier that day I admitted I wanted to return to Hong Kong. Singapore, I appreciated, but Hong Kong, I didn't. "Nagmamadali kasi tayo," my mom answered, a succinct response to why I don't have that many memories of the Chinese city. And then we'd reach Binondo and walk from our parking space along the sidewalks of Ongpin to the restaurant, and I'd say, "mukha siyang Hong Kong."

I pretty much took advantage. The food was delicious - the President's here is still something compared to the "express" branches popping up in malls, not to mention the charm that comes with the building. I think the restaurant is located in an old theater or something. The stuffed chicken was my favorite - it's overwhelmingly big, yes, and it's really stuffed: sticky rice, pork asado, vegetables, calories of rich death coming a day after what idiots in my faith call Judgment Day. When I'm in a foreign country I make it a point to take in the sights and the food, and this, an hour's drive from my home, is no exception.

And then the crabs arrived. The lunch was really festive, and it eventually overwhelmed the warriors in my table, but I was feeling a bit impulsive. I'll eat crab, I said. Now, I don't usually eat crab - but I eat crablets, and I eat crab meat omelettes, and I eat fake crab sticks. Grown crabs in their shells? I find it cumbersome. Also, when I was a kid, during one of those summer vacations, I ate a crab and ended up developing rashes all over. Since then I figured I was allergic to crab - although that's not true, I guess. My mom says I got a rash from playing under the old mango tree that used to be in our backyard.

I took one of the crab's claws and dug through the shell to eat the meat. It was sweet. So that's what they mean when they talk about a sweet crab, I thought. And then I felt dizzy. I wasn't eating the fatty parts, but the smell made me want to throw up. And then I realized why I don't bother with whole crabs.

Continuation

2011-05-21T23:04:00.000+08:00

I just finished watching the last two episodes of the second series of Being Human. The idea of Annie, George and Mitchell being torn apart by so many things gets me riled up.

I have mood swings, and I tend to get too emotional. I watch certain films and, in several occasions, I end up crying, and screaming at the screen, yelling invectives at whatever's happening. "Putang ina! Dapat yang mangyari sa'yo, punyetang gago ka!" I do this with the news too, more often. I get too emotional. My parents hate me for that. I can only yell at the screen and not at their face, they'd say. More or less they hate it when I shout. You're not allowed to get angry.

You're not allowed to get angry, because it tears people apart, and God knows what the consequences are. God knows why I decided I hated my last "best friend", why I decided to unfollow her on Twitter despite a bad Internet connection, which meant the cut wasn't as clean as it should. But I was angry. And I hated her. I hated her for not being there anymore. But I did not want to lose her. I couldn't afford to lose her. There are only a few people on my side now. Why can't I just fucking swallow my pride?

But no. You're also not allowed to bottle your feelings up, because everything builds up and it will tear people apart, and God knows what the consequences are. Pretend everything's all right. Everything's all right now. And it does feel that way. And then it doesn't.

You're not allowed to lie, but you're not allowed to tell every truth you know either.

You're not allowed to discriminate, but you're not allowed to trust everyone either.

You're not allowed to do something, but you're not allowed to do nothing either.

Screaming, yelling at the screen, throwing all those cuss words? You're not supposed to do that. You cannot be enraged. You cannot be passionate. It's just a fucking screen. It's just a scenario unfolding in front of you. And you very well know that when you do that, you feel empty inside, you feel guilty, you feel terrible, because you blew your composure. But what are you supposed to do? Keep quiet? Keep up appearances? Humanity doesn't know what it wants. It prefers one thing, and then it prefers another, and it flitters between options depending on the situation. We cannot be consistent. You say it's adaptable: I say it's confusing, especially when you deem one option to be the best option and everybody else says it isn't.

Surely you found yourself overwhelmed by everything, to the point that you just want to break down in tears? And then you remember that you cannot cry, that you are not supposed to cry?

I happen to have no one by my side anymore. It was necessary. And you will say I fucked up my only chance at salvation.

On hold

2011-05-16T19:57:00.000+08:00

The last time I declared a blogging hiatus was a good six years ago. Despite the fact that I can't find that particular blog entry, I'm pretty certain that it happened. It was midterms, and I was blogging about it at the Cybernook, back when it wasn't a coffee shop yet. I told myself I needed the time to study. Looking back, it's a ridiculous idea, since I blogged a day later.

It's been more than two weeks since I last blogged. At this point it shouldn't be something to worry about. Does anybody still blog, even? We're busy. We'd rather tweet. Nobody reads this thing anymore. And yet I remember what Sars pointed out two years ago: I write both for a living and for recreation. This thing's continued existence is because it has to be here. But this blog has been idle for extended periods lately. Five entries per month, maximum, separated by weeks, and in rare spurts of inspiration, days.

That's the downside of being stuck at home. You get insecure. You read about your friends going out with their friends. You want to talk to your friends but you run out of topics, or the reasons to even call each other friends. You find yourself with nothing to do during the weekends. Your life revolves around the same four walls. Nothing strikes you as unusual anymore. There are no stories left to tell. Thus, this.

The problem is, I promised myself two things: that I won' abandon this blog, and that I'd write at least three entries a month. I know, right? Impossibly shallow.

I don't like having to strain hard to look to inspiration. It never feels comfortable, never natural. But I'm no longer in a position when things come to me. No more bitches in the back row. No more friends in air quotes. No more reason to complain about things, inevitably leading to some pilosophical longing. And the. I'd remember what Issa told me: "Kaya hindi na ako nag-a-iPod, eh."

I was at the grocery yesterday. I recently realize that pushing a cart yourself, looking for things yourself - it's liberating. I also realized that I love the freezer sections, not because of the temperatures, but because of what you'll find there. Slightly posh cheeses. Redundant chicken breast fillets. Puréed shrimp heads. Now that's a novel idea. What would you need it for? Maybe I could devote a whole blog entry to it? It's fascinating, but it's forced. Minutiae is never my thing, at least right now.

I head to a Chinese restaurant to buy what the Brits call "takeaway".

"Dalawang pansit guisado."

"Okay, sir. Upo ka muna."

Seated on a table beside me was an elderly Chinese man, I think, and his half-Spanish wife, I think. There's a toddler. There's a maid. And, across them, the elderly couple's daughter, or so I think. She looks Chinese. Her husband looks raggedy. I describe in uncertain detail because I didn't have an iPod: it died along the way.

"I've never really had food here," the daughter said. "I just had, you know those rice toppings? What they have here, you know, those noodles? And they have those spare ribs..."

"I like that," her mother interrupted.

"And they have this kind of fried rice. I don't know what it is, but it has some kind of gravy on top."

I can't tell if she's being dismissive or if she's actually complimenting the place. She sounds like she's sneering, what with her incessant English (and everybody else speaking Filipino) and that air that says I know this place more than you - you know, some kind of snobbish socialite who looks down on everybody. Speaking of, seated in another table is a lower class family, or so I think, judging from the many photographs of inane moments they took. Photographs of softdrink cans! Actual photographs! Digital camera! And then my order came. I can't make anything out of that.

Sweep me off my feet

2011-04-30T15:41:00.000+08:00

I don't care what some say about guys being not supposed to watch the royal wedding. The math favors my curiosity: I'm 22, and the last really big royal wedding was three decades ago. And then there's the fact that all major TV networks have decided to devote blanket coverage of the event, going as far as pushing their evening newscasts to a later time slot to accommodate the video feed from Westminster Abbey. You can imagine the perverse joy inside me when I watched ABS-CBN take the BBC's coverage, knowing that Huw Edwards and Sophie Raworth aren't strange names to me, and scoffing when the local channels insist on throwing in ads when their feed was funded by the licence fee.

Yes, there's the spectacle - the "richest display of pageantry" in a while, the newspapers would say - and then there's seeing how people reacted to the event. There are the people camping outside the procession's route - a million, again according to the newspapers. You'd forget there are people who don't give a toss, the Brits who think it's just another wedding, only one funded by the taxpayer, supplying another reason that justifies their wishes for the monarchy to wither out of existence. And then there are the two billion people - newspapers, yes - watching on their TVs around the world, including the people on my Twitter timeline.

There's the urge to talk about how the union of who we're now supposed to call the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge happening in a much smaller world. But instead, I'll talk about how my friends fawned over every detail. Granted, they're female media types, so they're not just fawning about Kate's wedding dress or William's eerie similarity to our incompetent president. The BBC somehow managed to rig a camera, a spinning camera, at the high ceilings of Westminster Abbey. I was afraid it would fall, kill the newlyweds, and trigger a flurry of conspiracy theorists. My timeline was going, "wow, that camera, I like!" although not in those exact spazzed-out words, of course.

But that's just part of it. We're talking about the ladies. I don't mean to be sexist, but they're the people who want - nay, need - to be swept off their feet. No surprise the royal wedding would appeal to them. Sure, William and Kate were friends for a decade, and the period between their engagement and the actual wedding was roughly half a year, but the whole thing was still so grand, you can't help but feel overwhelmed. I wish someone does that to me, they'd go. They'd watch the ceremonies, wait for the vows, and go, hah, when will this happen to me? We did grow up with fairy tales, of girls waiting for true love, and of guys giving it to them, after a mountain of trials and the occasional dragon. We end up being a delusional lot. The girls, especially. See? Sexist.

"Ako, I object, hindi n'yo ba naririnig?"

Pretty much the thought of every woman when the bishop asked if anyone thinks the wedding shouldn't push through. Alas, the sidewalks are far from Westminster Abbey, and much more a home somewhere in the Philippines. I would've told Krizzie that - not out of annoyance, note - but the high number of question marks that followed that tweet made me chuckle.

My Twitter timeline was full of wedding quotes, observations and the actually cynical "I wish this union would last forever" tweet. And then there's Krizzie, who started looking for film schools in London, hoping for the chance to meet the (let's face it, much more handsome) Prince Harry. "Guys, hindi n'yo naiintindihan," she tweeted halfway through the ceremony. "I have this need. Need. To meet Prince Harry." Which would lead to a royal romance, and hopefully, a royal wedding. Blanket coverage, two billion people watching around the world, all eyes on you, Prince Harry's bride. You'll exchange vows, wave at the commoners outside, and maybe outdo your new brother-in-law's two pecks. Swept off your feet. Exactly.

I get it. We were all taught, as children, to aim for happily ever after. The problem is, we end up delusional. We can't be content with what we have; we want it big, so big, so freaking big that it's virtually impossible to have unless luck is on your side. We have ladies looking for their prince, and passing over anybody else who doesn't fit their standards. Yes, I know, you're nice, and your feelings are genuine, but you're not gonna cut it for me. You're just not good enough. And what is good enough? Someone who'll give me the moon and the stars. And that's not a metaphor. What, a grand gesture? You know, my friend did that once. With a little courage I can pull that off. Whatever you're thinking, it's not gonna cut it. I want that times fifty. Fine, that scenario is unlikely, but once you see a woman get just that - preferably on a television - you feel like being on Bride Wars.

Maybe delusional isn't the term. Shallow is. The need to see what you feel, rather than actually feel it. And I'm frustrated because, apparently, feeling something isn't enough anymore. You have to walk the talk. And even if the experts say you have to spend a minute and a half making eye contact with that someone, just to make her feel loved, well, they'd want a car to go with it. But the thing is, Kate probably didn't ask for that from William. All the pomp was circumstance. We all didn't see past that. Which is why we're two billion people watching on our televisions, hoping it's us. Okay, I meant half that number.

Nicksy comes barging in

2011-04-27T16:51:00.000+08:00

"May tinatapos kasi ako eh," Sudoy said.

"Okay lang," I answered. "Magpaparamdam na lang ako kay Sars."

I bid him goodbye, walked out of the office, waited for an elevator, went up, went down, and in between, sent Sars a text message.

"Andito ulit ako. Lunch?"

I found myself in a busy canteen. A really busy canteen. It was, after all, the middle of lunch break. I stood there for three minutes before finally deciding that Sars won't reply to my text message.

I walked out, took an escalator towards the train station, bought a ticket, and waited for the next train to come. It was taking a while. I think three trains arrived on the other side of the platform before I got in one. I decided the day was too good to pass up an opportunity to have lunch with someone.

"Free for lunch today?"

"No, sorry!" Michelle replied. "I'm out with my friend today."

"It's okay," I answered. "Long shot nga." It was a hashtag at the end of my text message.

The second train arrived on the other side of the platform.

"Free for lunch today?"

Clarence didn't reply. The third train came, and finally, a train I can get in. A fourth train. An empty fourth train. An unusually empty fourth train, since I'm not in the last station. Turns out there was another breakdown, which was exactly what I had anticipated.

"I'm in Bohol," Sars replied.

"Ay," I replied. "Oh well. Ingat diyan!"

"Good luck!" she said.

I got to my station. I got up another escalator, texting Gwen. "I hate being in Ortigas and nobody is available for lunch," I said. She, obviously, did not reply. I ended up splurging on pepper rice.

No more fighting

2011-04-24T19:13:00.000+08:00

The last time this happened, we were fighting to stay together. Yes, I wanted to break free, but I was completely hesitant to do so. Letting go was just an option for when the while thing was irreparable. She, on the other hand, didn't want to let go. She gave me space, knowing I'd give us another try at one point or another. I did, a couple of months later. It wasn't irreparable.

Now, it happened again, and it's completely different. I just told myself, "right, that's it, there's nothing you can do." All she could muster was a mere "I'm beyond pissed at you!" Actually, I screwed up. It wasn't meant to be a spectacular break. I just broke off the wrong way, perhaps at the wrong time, and there it was. No more fighting.

I know we get tired after a while. We get bored. We look for something new. We decide to just forget about certain things, no matter how much it meant to us before. What amazes me - maybe it's the wrong line, but whatever - is how we do it. We hold on so hard. Or, we just let go. And it's never consistent. Two minutes ago I wanted this thing so badly. Two minutes later I don't give a damn.

What amazes me more is that, sometimes, we just don't care what happens. You let go of me? Fine. Enumerate reasons why. I'll be sour raping a bit. Maybe convincing mysel so hard that it's the right thing to do. Or I already have, which explains the "fine" part earlier. No more fighting.

And to think this is supposed to be forever. Or, at least you hoped it would be forever. But when you stop asking yourself whether it's your fault or not, well, it isn't supposed to be forever. It's a pit stop, not the finish line. You get back into the race. You were finding for the wrong thing. Now, if we could only get that right...

Hazelton Avenue

2011-04-12T17:45:00.000+08:00

I've been in this, uhh, situation for the past four months, and all I can say is this: I need a vacation.

Go on, say it. You've been working at home for the past four months! Why the heck would you still need a vacation? Actually, it's a shallow thought. In the past three weeks I've been looking over the house, while my parents go on not-entirely-for-pleasure trips. Dad brought mom along to Singapore, and my sister somehow tagged along with them. Then dad brought mom to Baguio, and my brother somehow tagged along with them. All throughout, I've been looking after the house, sleeping in the master's bedroom, waking up at six in the morning, and foregoing my morning walk to sweep and mop the house.

I'm becoming a bit of a domestic diva. I haven't perfected the processes yet, but lately I'm feeling a bit more responsible with how things are around the house. I wash the dishes. I remove the dead leaves outside. I water the flowers. I cook my own corned beef omelettes, provided I remember to keep them in the fire rather than flipping it too early. (I know the recipe, but I fail in implementation.) But go on, say it. You should've been doing that a long time ago. I know. I don't have a line for that.

But while I still, somehow, manage to find a sense of fulfillment in my currently meandering life, I still think I should get out more. Sure, it's fun being at home 24/7, but it gets tiring after a while. My existence has reverted to a state never seen since I was a young boy: I go where my parents go. And by that, I don't mean Singapore or Baguio, but my grandparents' house. Apart from that, it's the house, except for the morning walks, where I get to walk around the subdivision. And on weekends, where I get to drive the car to the carwash, also within the subdivision.

Yeah, there's the fact that I now know how to drive, and I'm still earning some money, and in theory I could go out and spend it. I realized that last weekend, when I made plans to go to the mall to buy another set of headphones for my PC - it takes shorter times for them to get busted now - and a few other things. (Read: Glee CD. Latest issue of Q.) I wasn't sure if I'd be allowed, until my dad gave me the go-signal to bring the car, drive it to the mall, and do my supposedly important errands. And my mom was just, "mag-ingat ka sa pagmamaneho, ha?"

It's not my first time to drive by myself. I've done it once, twice, thrice - the last two instances were when my brother found himself in school on a weekend when my parents are meeting with old friends. But this one was different. I'm not going to do anything particularly important. I'm just going to go to the mall and buy some things I feel that I should have. Which means trying to find parking. Which means trying to park the car. In reverse. Which I somehow managed to do. That success - I was so giddy I had to send text messages rto my parents - overshadows the time when I ended up being stuck on a green traffic light when I went home.

It was, oddly, liberating. Maybe it's my mindset. If I can't go to Singapore, then I'll go to the mall. Sure, there's little variety in the CDs they sell, and Alabang isn't exactly the most exciting place to be in, but it's still some alone time. Me having a plan, walking around, making decisions, choosing things - I feel I have control over my life, or at least the money I spend.

But in the end, my mindset says an hour spent buying future trash doesn't cut it. The thing with my situation is, I'm pretty much isolated. Sure, I spent most of the past three years talking to people online, but at least there's still a chance to talk to them in person. Right now my personal interactions are limited to family, and while I know they're going to be with me until I die, it's starting to bore me.

I was having a conversation (on Twitter, of course) with Alyssa earlier. She was going on about having a theater workshop tonight, straight from work. Of course, that means she's sleepy. At least, she says, she's getting some sleep - twelve hours straight on the weekends - and that it's better to lose some sleep than be stuck at home. Of course that hit me. I want to say it didn't hit me badly, but it did, and not because of the usual "why them, not me?" argument I'm so used to floating. This is Alyssa, the girl who's somehow goading me to attend some gigs, partly because Tonet has been goading her to goad me to attend some gigs. I know the former from college; the latter, from my years as a radio geek - and somewhere along the way, they met. And I've met neither. And I realize that I'm in a pretty bad position if I want to stay sane.

To my credit, I've long had some meet-ups planned. That meet-up with Gwen, for one, isn't still happening. January? It's April now, and we haven't talked about it. I'm not sure if she's still interested, either. So much for me thinking that, if it does happen, I'll be driving to the rendezvous and look stupid while parking the car. Maybe ask her to park for me. Oh, that'd be a shame. But whatever. The thing with being isolated is, I've got too much time to figure out whether the friendships I have now are still worth an invitation to coffee - if they're still worth sticking with. I'm making progress, if you'd call it progress.

And the bubble goes pop

2011-04-06T19:07:00.000+08:00

Surely you've been seeing my intermittent posts on The Duets Project - that little thing I have on Facebook where I post photos of me and someone else. Since I don't have that many photos of me in the first place, I have to go to everybody else's Multiply pages and hunt for albums with photos of me and someone else in it. Hard, because there aren't that many photos of me in the first place, partly because I never really was out and about.

Not that I'm complaining. More often than not I have a good idea of whose albums to go to, so I'm just treated to a kick back in time - back to, say, when we were still freshmen, when I was particularly earnest about doing things the right way. That thought makes me cringe now. I took things seriously and now I'm in between a rock and a hard place, if I'm allowed to exaggerate. And then that's forgotten, and I'm back to my nostalgia trip.

What makes these trips so fun is the fact that they seem so far away now. Everybody was right - you worry about things today, but when they pass you by and a few years fly by, they become mere artifacts. I worried about falling in love and now they're just silly stories. And I still don't have a love life to be proud of, but I have silly stories, albeit one I refuse to talk about, because I cringe whenever I think of all the blog entries I wrote. Am I in love with a girl named... I don't think so, Nicksy.

Today I was looking for more photos again. The problem was, I grossly miscalculated my probabilities. Here's me clicking on a photo album I never was part of in the first place. Here's me clicking on a photo album that, a few years ago, apparently, I vowed never to view, because for some odd reason it makes me feel really, really bad about myself. Well, to my credit, I did forget about it. It's been three years, and it should be just some chapter than you look back and chuckle about. And I did. And then it wasn't.

I hated the way how disastrous the process of moving on has been. Maybe it's because I made such a fuss out of it back then - it pretty much consumed me - but I just wanted it over with, despite knowing that I can't just yet. And then it's suddenly gone. Three years pass by, and it becomes a silly story.

The difference is, this story didn't end spectacularly. It just ended. I didn't feel anything that warranted an overreaction. It just ended. So, whew, this is what you really call moving on. No bad feelings whatsoever. Just a silly story in three years or so. That pretty much happened. It's been three years. It's a silly story, of me saying nothing will happen, only for something to happen, and so publicly unfolding on the airwaves. I cringe when I remember saying "I la la her" on the phone at five before midnight. It was a pretty good ending for someone with a disastrous streak.

That photo album reminded me of how bad things really were.

Perhaps I pushed it out of my head. Good thing, I might've said. I'm coping. But I lived with a lie while all of that was happening, and three years later my silly story is a lie. The story went along the lines of I didn't explode. I didn't look foolish. I kept quiet, and then it was done. But it was more of her not liking me as much as she did the others. Or, it's me being so shelled in and the others being so nice. More or less, it's a slow motion train wreck. The whiplash came in late. Really, really late.

Only I remember that I felt that very way before, back when I was in the middle of it. And I was pushing it out of my head Good thing, I definitely said. I'm coping. I'm growing as a person. I'm no longer overreacting. I was delusional. I know I'm sounding like five years ago, but I was delusional. I was convincing myself that this was going so, so well, only it isn't, because while I swooned in the corner I did not exist unless I had to.

That's the funny thing with this. Many times I told myself not to make a big deal out of something because it's immature, but the one time I did that, I end up with a lot of unresolved issues. I meandered, but I didn't really make it. And look, I'm this guy who stumbled this way around, and the rest were so smooth. And it reflects in every situation that involved me dealing with other people. Either it's too much or too little. I never really learned anything.

Two years ago I was calling that story a wonderful one. Nothing bad happened. Funny what an extra two years does to a supposedly silly story.

Temperamentally untalkative

2011-04-03T02:05:00.000+08:00

I shouldn't be doing this - after all, I'm the most insecure person within a four square meter radius - but I don't know. I pick up a magazine and, rather than flick through random pages to appreciate the design or hope for an eye-catching photo, I go straight to the masthead and read the names of the people who were involved in the making of the magazine.

My official position goes along the lines of "I don't know whether this is the thing I should be doing." I've tried applying for magazines but I never got past first base, to mangle my metaphors. Actually, I never even got to first base. And then you see the same names in different publications - I think I've read too many magazines in barber shops - and you have me elaborating on something I've complained about before.

Yesterday I was having a long overdue haircut and I was reading a magazine I wouldn't usually read, partly because it's about something I wouldn't usually be interested in. Okay, it's design, but it's snobbish design, like there is such a thing as non-snobbish design. And besides, I had no choice - I was in a different barber shop, one with magazines that are either oddly irrelevant, or particularly old they're so dilapidated. You wouldn't know it's Daiana Menezes on that spread. So I picked up the one that I could practically read, and went on to read the masthead. And there it was. A person that I knew.

I could count one, two, three people I know who work in magazines. Suddenly there's a fourth, although she's someone I wasn't really particularly close with. We weren't friends in the strictest sense - we were classmates in one class, and I always thought she was annoyed at me. I mean, I was a sophomore that's too eager relative to the time I spent in college. She was a senior who just wanted it over with. But somehow I decided to add her in Facebook, and somehow she decided to add me back. Oh, right, we worked together at one point. And I remember seeing one of her posts a few weeks back, about having written this and that for a magazine, and I get the air that she's proud of her work, which is natural, except that she stated it in a very Albie-like way. Not her exact words: people just don't get it, and it's frustrating.

Well, I'm sorry if I'm a Muggle and you're a Mudblood. Then again, you need to be particularly exposed to high society to be able to write about design. I just can't imagine someone who prefers gin over wine to be hobnobbing with fashion designers and whatnot. But that's not really the point. Since seeing that Facebook post, I got curious. Yes, everybody can write. And yes, I'm insecure. And here's a chance for me to see what the whole deal is about. I must note, I'm not approaching this with animosity or anything. I guess people just get luckier sometimes - anyway, the clincher was when I started reading. My eyes opened wide, and my jaw almost dropped.

She started her article with the word "taciturn". I don't know what that means.

When I was in high school, I discovered that I tend to take a while to find the right words to describe things. Say, "angry" may work for most of us, but not for me - sure, I'm angry, but it's more frustrated with a hint of confused. What's the right word for that? There's no telling. I try to find the right word but I don't go hunting for it in the dictionary. It doesn't help that it's organized alphabetically by word rather than by definition. (Which would've been a pain in the ass.) And, yes, there's the fact that I don't really use that word. Taciturn. That's only the second time I've written that word in my entire life.

And that comes from the person who occasionally uses the word "confuddlement". My browser may slap a red underline on that word, but it exists. "A state of extreme confusion." Apt, right? Things leave me confuddled sometimes. (There goes another red underline.) That, and it sounds so confusingly awkward it makes Marshall McLuhan proud. I remember Jackie tweeting me back about seeing me use that word. "So I had to search for it in the dictionary!" she said. I felt proud at one point, and then I thought, "is there really such a word, or did I just make it up?"

Sure, we use words we pick up. I must've seen "confuddlement" somewhere and figured out what it meant immediately. Context clues, according to our reading lessons. I have encountered "taciturn" a few times but I just never had those context clues. I look at the dictionary and it gives me a definition: temperamentally untalkative. Ah, so that's what it means. I actually have a different word for that, a word that I never see used in the few fiction books I've read. I call that a snob. Or, when I'm angry, a bitch.

Shades of gray

2011-03-29T19:43:00.001+08:00

There was a good point raised in this week's episode of Castle.

The climax of the episode, so to speak, happens when Captain Montgomery faces his good friend, the New York district attorney. By now we've figured out that he's had a hand in protecting he real culprit behind the murder of the daughter of a prominent family. Everybody thought it was some guy who robbed her car: turns out it was the victim's brother, who accidentally shot her while in the middle of a drug-powered joy ride.

The cover-up? The victim's family turned out to be major contributors to the DA's campaign for mayor of New York. Fearing he'll lose some clout, he decided to handle the case personally, pin an innocent person who found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, and get away with it. But this being a television show, the bad guy had to fall sooner or later. Thus, the inevitable confrontation.

"The problem is," the DA said, "you see everything in black and white. In our case it's all gray." He was, of course, rationalizing himself. And he has a good point. Or should I say the show's writers have a good point?

I was listening to the lawyer of military comptroller Jacinto Ligot during one of my morning walks. This was a day after he and his wife begged out of the Senate's hearing into corruption at the armed forces. They said they were not feeling well. The Senate had their doctors check on them; turns out they're perfectly fine. The former general was detained in the Senate for refusal to cooperate, and his lawyer is talking on the radio, discussing what happened before, and what they'll do next.

I don't remember what he exactly said, but his point was somewhere along the lines of, "I just submitted my client's excuse letter to the Senate." Perfectly reasonable, yes, although I can't help but think something is amiss. Surely, being a lawyer sworn to uphold justice, he would've told his client to do the right thing, right? Sure, you're sick, but you're not that sick, and you can make it, so just go before you get yourself in deeper trouble. Surely he's smart enough to think of that, right?

Today the Ligots don't have much of a choice. Now they have to answer the questions the senators (who are more or less grandstanding, but that's a different entry altogether). Then again, it's another opportunity to invoke their right against self-incrimination. Or mention that they don't have any recollection of, say, having this amount of money, or having taken these trips to the United States. Or, in the case of Erlinda Ligot, make an emotional speech explaining their behavior. "Kami ay tao rin na nasasaktan," she said, while forgetting that she's a person who has to fess up to her corrupt behavior. Surely that's not just her idea, right?

Lawyers are sworn to uphold justice. Not that I know the exact words, but we all have the impression that being a lawyer is a noble profession, where you get the chance to do good for society. And yet being a lawyer is prohibitively expensive. If you can afford it, you become part of an elite circle, and you know what elite circles tend to do - get caught up on their eliteness, have fun through the good and the bad, and come out of it with all the camaraderie, but none of the intentions.

And they move up their ranks, learn from their mistakes, decide to take what's best for them, and we end up with lawyers that defend the bad guys - and, in some cases, even help them get away with it, maybe squash their personal beliefs that they're on the wrong side all this time - just to stay in that circle. Lawyers that insist he victims of the Maguindanao massacre killed each other, or were bitten by poisonous ants, and somehow managed to bury themselves with a backhoe. Lawyers that think the best defense is to invoke one's perfectly legal right against self-incrimination, even if it means denying the greater good.

My cousin recently passed the bar exams. In a couple of weeks, he'll be swearing in as a lawyer. I know he's a good man, and I hope he stays that way when he pursues his noble profession. The same goes for my many friends who are currently taking up law. I know they're good people with good intentions, but who's to say they'll stay the course, especially after they get a taste of how things really go around here? It no longer becomes black or white. It's all gray, shades of gray, and in those shades are loopholes that will help you gt away with it. They justified it themselves. They're lawyers. They're smart people.

Yes, a year and a half is forever in your world, and it's forever in my world too...

2011-03-28T17:55:00.000+08:00

Both of my hands are holding my iPod touch. The Twitter application (sorry, app) is open. There's a tweet I want to reply to, in the most unusual way imaginable. And by that, I actually mean a way I vowed I'd never do. So, instead, I compose that tweet in my head and let it go.

Good morning, private crush!

My mind races back to a conversation I had with Hazel a few months back. It was one of the first Twitter conversations we had. This was shortly (or maybe not, I can't remember) after I found her online, which was months after we first made acquaintances. So she talks about us being technically online friends despite meeting before, and I say, "we met once, not enough for me to gaze into your eyes..."

It is, I'll admit, a really pathetic thing to say. But that was me being a bit playful, I guess.

"Can I just say," she replies, "I think that was sorta flirty, dude!"

Earlier in the conversation we were talking about flirting. I don't remember why we were talking about that, but we just were. I remember saying that I never did it before, and then she points out that I already am. "Sorta."

I know. I complained about this before. I wrote about this before. "Tell me," I asked Gwen. "Do I fail at flirting because I don't know when I do?" So how exactly is flirting defined, then? Flirting is a common form of social interaction whereby one person obliquely indicates a romantic or sexual interest towards another. I am aghast after reading that description. As it turns out, I've been flirting all this time.

But before I was aghast, I started being really conscious of myself. No more hints. Not that I vowed never to like someone again - the lack of blog entries devoted to the matter is no indication - but I've long figured that my interests should stay private. You say something, even if it's in an oblique manner, and you still say something. Someone will get the message. And something bad will always happen. Or, at least, something awkward.

Which leads me back to me, my iPod touch, and that tweet I'm composing in my head. Good morning, private crush!

Or should it be secret crush? Either term sounds wrong, or it's me being picky with my words. Why am I saying that anyway? It's supposed to be a joke, and yes, jokes are half-meant, but then again, I'm not saying this as a joke. I'm saying this as a random drop of truth, from out of nowhere, which will be forgotten. And why shouldn't I? It's not something that has bothered me, as much as the others. But why should I? Because it won't be forgotten. It will be awkward from here on out. But it has been forgotten. You already did this before, only with different words.

I decide not to do it. Frankly, I didn't have a reason to, at least not until those eyes - I've gazed into them long enough, until I decided to look elsewhere because it's distracting me - come up again, in my daydreams. But not before I start wondering. I may not indicate any interest of any sort, but will anything I say suggest that? Will everything I say suggest that? Because you cannot keep anything in. So I must be flirting all along. Flirting with Hazel, flirting with Gwen, and yes, writing those words made me feel filthy, because I certainly did not plan it all along.

Oh well. Good afternoon, person I'm actually, unknowingly flirting with.

Perfect score!

2011-03-27T18:32:00.001+08:00

I think the only time I sang karaoke was, well... I don't really remember when. I just remember that it's in one of my parents' friend's houses, and I was somehow goaded into singing Westlife's Season in the Sun because I knew the song. That, and I thought it was the perfect opportunity to show off to everybody. Hey, I actually know this song, the same way I know all the words to Michael V.'s Sinaktan Mo Ang Puso Ko!

Since then I never wanted to sing karaoke again. It's not that I don't know any of the songs - actually, whenever my relatives take the microphone during family reunions I end up realizing that I know particular songs. It's just that I can't be bothered, the same way I prefer not to swim even if I already took swimming lessons. My cousins sing newer songs - I remember one of my cousins singing All The Small Things during one of those overnight resort activities - but I think the idea of being able to sing, say, Bamboo's Hallelujah on Magic Sing is a little iffy. And I know I'll humiliate myself with older songs, even if I grew up with them.

Thus I'm a little amazed at how fearless people can be when it comes to singing. Oh, you're talking to a Filipino too - and I can attest to the fact that Filipinos love to sing, which explains all those singing competitions. So am I afraid to be humiliated? Kinda - but it's more of me not wanting to be bothered. Besides, I'll only sing karaoke in front of relatives I see around seven times a year. It's not like we live in a literally tight community, where neighbors can hear us belt our hearts out, right?

Then again, you don't need to be in a tight community to be able to hear all those songs. I live in a subdivision with decent-sized lots, but it's no match for the speed of sound. Just last night, a neighbor decided to have a karaoke machine rented, invite some drinking buddies, and start an impromptu concert. The usual complaint goes along the lines of "you sing horribly!" but we've taken a different policy: we won't be bothered if the singing is decent. For the most part it is, and while the neighbors' singing continues way into the night, we can sleep fine. Except, perhaps, for the one time when the singing continued into the next day. Horrible singing.

Actually horrible singing isn't much of a concern for me either. It's what you'd expect during a karaoke session. It's the only time I can feel like (insert name of singer here), so let me! What I'm bothered about is how they go about with the singing. They say My Way is deadly - and, if I remember correctly, they have banned it in some drinking joints for fear of murder - but I believe another song deserves the accolade: Bakit Ngayon Ka Lang.

Now, it's a decent song, written and performed by one of our modern greats, Ogie Alcasid. (Or maybe I'm wrong, but I'm sure I'm right. Correct me?) The song received a new lease on life when Freestyle performed it in one of their concerts with Pops Fernandez. (Again, correct me?) It got played on the radio, got stamped in our heads, and now we're trying to replicate how that performance transformed a lament for love into a call-and-response type of song. To the very last note. Let me attempt to describe it in words.

Bakit ngayon... - Bakit ngayon ka lang - dumating sa buuu... - dumating sa buhay ko? - Pilit binuuu... - Pilit binubuksan - ang saraaaa... - aaaaaang aking puuuuso?

I failed, yes?

What if I say that every karaoke performance of this song has to be between a man and a woman? And it always has been?

My point is - and maybe it's me and my three years of covering American Idol - I can't stand the fact that they have to sing the song the exact way they heard it on the radio. I can hear Simon Cowell complaining. "That was karaoke." Pretty much the same way a drunk neighbor missed the cues to Don't Stop Believin', or a kid decided to sing Alone... by skipping all the words except for "Alone", which she proceeded to melodically scream in the next four minutes.

Then again, that is the point of karaoke. It's not being able to know the words - they flash on the screen - but the fact that you can, more or less, mimic your favorite singer, have an audience with your "adoring fans", and maybe, just maybe, hope that you get a perfect score. Speaking of which, I never knew how they made that work. Does the machine have an electronic approximation of the original, and take note if the singer sings the song exactly as it should sound like, note for note? For someone who can't be bothered by karaoke, well, he sure is bothered.

Jealousy

2011-03-13T20:48:00.000+08:00

So I'm being told, "there's no reason to be jealous." I wonder why. There is, contrary to what's said, many reasons to be jealous. And I'm not thinking of how glamorous the life they're living is. In fact, I couldn't give a toss about whether it's glamorous or not, although that would be an interesting bonus. Also, it never factored in.

"It's not fun," they tell me. "It's lots of hard work. You don't get time for yourself."

"Actually," I say, "we're all not supposed to have time for ourselves, sooner or later."

The argument wasn't won yet. And they, the people who are there, will not go down without a fight. Inevitably, since they're there, and being there leads, somehow, to an air of supremacy.

"But it's not as fun as it looks."

Same argument, insisted twice as hard.

"I know that. Doesn't mean I don't want it."

"Why are you asking me about this anyway?" they'd go. (The writing style should be clear by now.) A confused expression forms in their faces. "I'm telling you, there's nothing to be jealous about. Now, change topic, please?"

It doesn't quell me. I'm still jealous. I still badly want it, or something like it. That is the keyword. Something like it. You know what you want to get yourself into, or at least have an idea, which is why you want it. Or something like it. And you know you have what it takes to do so, or at least you think you do, which is why you want it. Or something like it. But you get the idea that they won't let you. Why, because it's not as fun as it looks?

And you try to understand why they see it that way. It consumes you in every way, mostly wrong, because you start dealing with egos and routines and, sooner or later, you've stomped on all that green grass a lot, it stops growing and becomes a patch of barren land. And the grass on the other side, it looks so alluring. So you tell the rest, "no, stay, it's much better." But you're in exactly the same situation, only worse, because yu have these people telling you all these recycled reasons, all these recycled excuses, only to see them, hours later, exchanging funny retweets peppered with hilarious laughter. Not fun?

And then you start thinking, "maybe they don't want me there at all. Because I know I'm good enough to be there. And I'm a threat to them! I'm better than them! That's why they don't want me around. That's why they make all these silly, condescending excuses."

And then you see them laughing again. Not that fun. Scoff. You look at your barren patch of land and go, "I'll get out of here someday." And then you realize they're right: you don't have what it takes to be there, because you can't stand up to egos in the best possible way: by having an ego yourself. Which is why they're, somehow, being an ass to you.

The hardest part is, you remain jealous of them. Somehow, that's how things go, and that's how they want it to be.

Magnitude

2011-03-11T18:12:00.002+08:00

Saturn and I were joking about it a few days ago. With the frequency of earthquakes around the so-called Ring of Fire - one in New Zealand, one in Japan, one in the Philippines, almost simultaneously - I quipped that, at this rate, everything around the Pacific Ocean will break off the planet and exist on its own.

Of course, recalling that story right now seems awfully inappropriate. But my point's somewhere in the details. Saturn's in Montreal, and I'm in Manila. Saturn came from the Philippines, of course, and he's got relatives in the far-flung provinces. I was online when he heard of a minor earthquake strike the country - I can't remember where; I think it was in Mindanao - at the same time a fairly strong earthquake struck Japan. I told him we were fine. And then we cracked the jokes.

Today was no day for joking. Japan was struck by another earthquake - a magnitude 8.8 earthquake. Or 8.4. Or 8.9. The figure depends on what channel you're watching, but it's still a scary thing, a really scary thing, since the earthquake that triggered the 2004 tsunami in the Indian Ocean was just a magnitude 8, if I remember correctly. Although, maybe, if you're getting too stressed at the figures, a little joke could go a long way.

This quake was centered in the ocean, so the tsunami warning was inevitable. Seeing a torrent of water hit the coastal areas of northern Japan, on live television, on seven news channels, was the most surreal thing I've seen in a while. And it also meant we'll be hit. I'm in Manila, and we're safe as I write this, since we're not on the eastern seaboard where the Pacific waters lie. But it doesn't stop people here from panicking. We saw what happened in Indonesia six years ago. Probably live as well.

It's the dead hours of the morning in Montreal. Saturn can't sleep, worrying about his relatives here, who happen to be on the eastern seaboard. He's watching ANC online. I tell him to sleep. He won't, believing that he'll sleep better once he knows we're fine.

I get a message from Dinna, who's in Indonesia (as you probably know already), addressed to me and Valerie and Immie. She hopes we're fine. We're all fine, I reassure her.

I send Jackie a message. She's in Taiwan, or so I thought; she'd later tweet from Hong Kong, I think, asking about tsunami alerts in Taiwan.

I see Krizzie worrying about her relatives in California, and the surfing areas in Hawaii, partly (presumably) because she's been itching to get a surf-perfect body in time for the summer, or whatever's left of it here. And then she realizes that all of this is happening outside surf season, "which means winds aren't strong enough to build big, big waves," she tweeted.

I send Chiaki a message, asking if her relatives - she's Japanese, after all - are fine. She reassures me that they're fine, as far as she knows.

A stranger sends me a message. Someone from the David Cook community, I presume; someone who knows Dinna, and judging from the message, Immie and Valerie as well. Wishing us all fine. I consider sending a reply.

"We'll be fine. Thanks for the prayers!"

I send Rae a message, not expecting a reply, since she's probably busy helping out, being a sailor and all.

Saturn drops me another line. "I'm getting a few hours of shut eye, as long as you guys are all fine."

It's fascinating how small the world is now. I'm not sure if it's a good thing. One thing gets amplified more than it should be. That works both ways. Maybe the Ring of Fire has broken off the planet and is now revolving independently around the sun. But, as I said, we'll be fine, unless something unforeseen happens, and heavens forbid it doesn't, because suddenly people will speak as if they're beside us, but act as if we're on opposite ends of the spectrum.

Am I proud to be one-sixteenth Filipino?

2011-02-28T18:32:00.001+08:00

I haven't seen that video featuring Maria Aragon, the ten-year-old girl who did a cover of Lady Gaga's Born This Way. Well, to be precise, I haven't seen the whole thing. I've only seen a clip off the evening news, of her singing to the camera while playing her keyboard. I only know that Lady Gaga herself saw the video, linked to it on her Twitter account, and sent her fans in a tizzy. I also know that she managed to talk to the girl on the phone, in a radio interview, I think. Maybe there were a few other appearances after that. And I'm pretty sure Maria was given an invitation to perform in one of Lady Gaga's concerts.

And you do know Maria's Filipino, right?

Filipino-Canadian, to be exact. When that fact got out, as fast as the video did, a light bulb lit up across our collective consciousness. Another Filipino making waves abroad. I should be proud of her! Nothing wrong with that - there are many Filipinos who have made their names outside their homeland. We love the glittery world of show business, which is why we find the idea of Charice appearing on Glee, or apl.de.ap sampling Asin in a Black Eyed Peas song, really, really cool. (Then again, half the people I know hated the first idea.) So having this little kid attract the attention of one of pop music's most provocative figures would make the patriot in us swell, right? Nothing wrong with that.

And then the news got to our reporters, who promptly blew the story up on the evening news. "Batang Pinay, umani ng parangal mula kay... Lady! Ga! Ga!" They'd cite it as another example of why we rock as a nation, and gush over the fact that someone so awesome could have Filipino blood. There'd be an online campaign to get her on Ellen, and they'd spin the story and make it about us taking over the world. I can imagine the subtext. "Justin Bieber is old news! We want Maria Aragon!" (This is an actual headline.) That was enough to make me cynical. So suddenly we're all gushing over this girl, who probably spent her entire life in Canada, and doesn't have any idea who we are, nor give a damn about us?

Maybe it is just me, but I hate the way we try to make a big deal over the slightest Filipino connection. I'm not talking about Manny Pacquiao breaking records in the boxing ring. I'm not talking about Cristeta Comerford cooking for the (last I checked) most powerful man in the world. I'm talking about how we all made a big deal of Darren Criss being part-Filipino - not even half; I don't think he thought about it until we freaked out at the idea that there's more than one Filipino on Glee. I'm talking about how we all made a big deal of Hailee Steinfeld, who was earning praise for her performance in True Grit, having Filipino blood, when it's her mother who had a Filipino parent. I'm talking about how we all made a big deal of Harry Shum Jr. having a Filipina girlfriend. A half-Filipina girlfriend.

Yes, I'm sounding really cynical here. Heck, I probably sound envious. That's what my parents would always say. They'd say I should stop complaining about this sort of thing, that I should just shut up and accept the fact that they're famous and I'm not - and they'd go as far as saying that I will never prove anything unlike them. And sure, maybe there's a part of me that goes like that, but I never dreamed of being a big name in another part of the world; I perfectly know that it's beyond my capabilities.

I just hate the fact that we, as Filipinos, tend to latch on to certain people to define ourselves, that we look at the flimsiest of connections to claim someone as our own, and call it a success for our race. Nothing wrong with that? Sure, but it seems to be the only thing we're doing. Most Filipinos who have seen success outside the Philippines - or at least most of those who gain lots of attention in those pretentious newspaper sections - tend to just be a fraction of us. A sixteenth Filipino, a hodge-podge of ethnic lineages, and absolutely no idea what the Philippines is, and we claim him as our own. Is that all that we could do?

And before you start complaining about it, no, I'm not saying that Filipinos are losers. I'm not saying that the only Filipinos capable of success have to be half-something - I did mention Manny Pacquiao, after all. But admit it, we tend to look out rather than look in. A success story within the country gets some mileage, but not as much as "batang Pinay, umani ng parangal mula kay... Lady! Ga! Ga!" because it lacks the sparkle of being outside the country. Or it becomes a victim of the usual crab mentality. It's an easier victim.

For the longest time, we've been looking for the one thing that will spark patriotism within us. Tall order, yes - we've never been more split - but to start with, we've been looking at the wrong places. We can say that this person is awesome and all, but we can't claim him as our own, for despite the lineage he doesn't have an idea who we are and what we're going through. Political strife? I'd rather score MDMAs. You get the idea.

As for Maria Aragon, well, she's good, but I won't call her awesome. Your hyperbole is putting things out of perspective, and as much as you call out her blood, you'll get nothing.

The middle ground

2011-02-25T19:06:00.000+08:00

When I was young, I had the impression that Ferdinand Marcos was an evil man. It was too simple a thought, really. He declared martial law in 1972 to get back against his enemies and entrench himself in position. Thus, the moment he was finally kicked out of power in 1986 - thanks to a swarm of people gathering in EDSA to protect military officers who broke away from the status quo - was defined as a classic good-conquers-evil scenario.

My grandfather, however, wasn't having any of that. He's a Marcos loyalist, judging from the Marcos/Tolentino campaign sticker I found in the walls of a room in his house. Or, maybe he wasn't a Marcos loyalist. Maybe it's because both of them hailed from Ilocos Norte. You know how fierce your allegiance to your home town can be. Anyway, he argued - and note, I was probably a nine-year-old smartass back then - that during his tenure, Marcos had built a lot of infrastructure, all with the vision of a progressive Philippines. He'd invoke that the very highway we use to get to his house was Marcos' brilliant idea - and true, what we now call the South Luzon Expressway was built under his watch, to link the southern provinces to Manila.

Of course, I wasn't having any of it, especially when my grandfather claimed that it was Cory Aquino - the meek housewife who was brought to power by that popular uprising twenty-five years ago - who was the bad one.

I'm not saying Cory is a bad person now. Her contributions to the restoration of democracy in this country cannot be denied. While her administration was beset with problems, mostly stemming from the fact that we were impatient enough for the change her coming into power signified, she was the person we needed to steer us through a particularly turbulent time in our history.

And I'm not saying that Marcos is a bad person. Sure, he and his family lived a lavish lifestyle, and there are allegations of human rights violations aimed at him, but he assumed power - at least initially - because he wanted to make our country better. There were his ideas, the ones my grandfather invoked. And there was his brilliance, the thing that catapulted him to the highest office in the land at such a young age.

I'm pretty sure that is too simple an assessment, but I'm no longer nine. I'm twenty-two, and I've studied my history, more or less, and while I wasn't alive when all of this was happening, I sure am feeling the effects now.

Back in college, during history class, my professor offered a theory as to why martial law seemed to be a good thing back then. Days after Proclamation 1081 was issued, he says, the unrest surrounding the country - all those immoralities, all those concerns - went poof. He thinks it's because Marcos was behind it in the first place: once he declared military rule, purportedly to "save the Republic" from, among others, the threat of communist rebels, he flicked the off-switch on all those shenanigans and the world was fine again. It was a plausible theory, but it seemed too fantastic for me to believe.

So, maybe, there was a clampdown, and he took on a harder stance so the country could progress. And some may say that his concept of a New Society - Bagong Lipunan, our coins then said - was just wallpaper put up to cover the problems our country was in, but to an extent something good came out of it. But, of course, there were the clamps on our rights. Ariel Ureta was put to jail for kidding about bicycles, for one.

But now I can't call Marcos sheer evil. I'm sure, in his head, he's thinking, what I'm doing is necessary. It's what we called the lesser evil, although what it really was is a different discussion altogether. It's the reason why studying ethics in school is such a headache: there are no absolute right answers. What makes one thing the right thing or the wrong thing is a matter of perspective.

It's the same reason why some will say now that Cory's administration was a relative failure. Land reform didn't take off everywhere, especially in her family's land. There was unrest from the military. There were allegations of nepotism and corruption. Or maybe it's because we had our freedoms back, and we could complain about anything and everything without fear of reprisal, until it all became about the complaining and not about the improvements. We all got carried away.

Krizzie and I had a discussion along these lines during the elections, when Cory's son Noynoy still a candidate. He, of course, ran on the back of popular support: his mother had died, there was no good alternative, and we wanted to get over the corruption that marred the Arroyo administration. Or so they all thought. We both didn't want him to win: we both thought he was incapable of running the daily affairs of the state. Sure, he has good intentions, but how can he back it up? Krizzie went as far as waxing sentimental over the Marcos years, of a brilliant mind with brilliant ideas and terrible implementation - she wasn't alive back then, but I trust she knows more than I do, since she's in the Student Council (or what used to be it) and I just wrote about it.

And sure enough, Noynoy won. "Kayo ang boss ko," he said during his inaugural speech. And he said that again today, in ceremonies marking twenty-five years since his mother assumed power. Or, as we'd all like to call it, the moment that defined us Filipinos - the moment when we were really united towards one goal. Before that we can't even get our acts together, possibly cowering in fear. After that, we couldn't get our acts together. Just one moment. And lots of faux sentimentality.

Noynoy is a product of the revolution, and in his speech, he spewed out his usual clueless rhetoric. Maybe attacked Bongbong Marcos for saying that we could be like Singapore if his father, the dictator Marcos, wasn't thrown out of office. I didn't listen to the speech. I don't like their president. He doesn't say anything relevant anyway, although he did point out that our foreign debt ballooned under Marcos' watch, something that we're still paying to this day. And then he goes to talk about the legacy that moment left behind, about the things we aspire for now, as we try to get back.

A product of the revolution, where all we do is prop ourselves up as the savior while kicking the asses of everyone who disagree with us. A product of the revolution, with hope that for once, we can get a break and get back in the game. Or maybe both. It's all a matter of perspective. Exactly why ethics is a headache.

Prom season

2011-02-14T18:00:00.000+08:00

I've never been to a prom. No, really.

The closest thing to a prom I had was the so-called "turnover ceremony" back in elementary school. The graduating batch turns the baton over to the ones immediately after them. It was sterile and it taught me the wrong lyrics to the Eraserheads' With A Smile, but on the upside, it led to me being given some sort of "Star of the Night" award, on the only time I attended; the previous year I either fell sick or didn't feel like it.

I didn't survive regular high school long enough. I did go through high school, but there was an unspoken policy of living your own life - it's just my classmates being stubborn - and our class (of ten) only had three girls. One was taken (hello, Aie), one was a bit distant (hello, Robyn) and one was just, well... hello, Chiaki.

And college, well, it did not look feasible. High school is the last time a school can organize an event and compel, or perhaps force, everyone to come. College, on the other hand, is when you're supposed to be independent. And you had lots of choice, too: every organization, especially those with wads of money (hello, Cobs) always staged a "must-go" party at one of the city's hottest nightspots. It crammed everything in: a fashion show, a couple of performances, and a lot of drinks, all to appease the sponsors, the organization, and the school, who'd somehow find a way to direct the profits to some pet cause.

I remember my time at the batch assembly, when Reena, who was then batch president, had the idea of organizing a ball for the batch. I never really knew how it happened: the next thing I knew the event, which was branded as a final get-together for the batch before we graduated, was to be held at some fancy hotel, and cost a thousand bucks to enter. Now, the intentions were noble, but a thousand bucks to enter? Never went down our throats well, especially since we had to go since we'll be organizing the thing. I disagreed, along with a few others, and the higher-ups sort of buckled and ended up redirecting the money to the One La Salle scholarship fund, because it was too late to back out. I don't know what happened after.

I never really despaired over the fact that I didn't get to experience going to the prom. Before I graduated from high school I was starting to feel a little disillusioned by love, or at least mustering the courage to ask someone to go to the prom with you. (The blog's early readers will know where I'm going. No, I won't go there.) By the time the silent revolution rolled in, I was already jaded. By the time I graduated, I'm a hopeless case.

It's safe to say that this is the first time my family's going through the experience of preparing for the prom. Sure, my sister has been there, but my mom's a pretty stylish woman, so she had outfits to pass down. My brother, on the other hand, has to go shopping, partly because my dad's neckties and suits - the ones I borrowed when I had to go to something formal - don't fit him, and partly because he doesn't have anything formal in his wardrobe. Can't blame him: he's a believe in the "dress to impress" adage.

To make things more interesting, he has a girlfriend. I would say "I don't know how he did it" but I shouldn't be surprised, really. I'm painfully insecure, and he's more or less popular in high school. I may disagree with how he does things, but he made it work. That makes the experience easier for him: he doesn't have to ask someone to go with him to the prom, because it's very much a given.

We never really talk about her. Ideally I'm the older brother with words of advice, but I'm painfully insecure, and he's more or less popular in high school. I'll think of asking someone out, and back off anyway - a fact that is true up to this day. He's done it. Often. So I can't possible give him any advice. That, and he's a bit of an asshole, who doesn't want anyone from his family interfering with him. I doubt he'll ever introduce the girl to the family. Or that's me being a bit traditional. I can only hope he wooed her the traditional way, too.

We started looking for suits last week. I noticed that there was this kid, a boy the same age as my brother, who was doing the same thing. I presumed he was also going to the prom. He picked out one suit, fitted it, and chose another. That, or his dad was doing all the picking, because he was the one holding all the suits. Maybe it's just me and my jaded tendencies, but I saw a sad glimmer in the boy's eyes. Either he's sleepy, but I interpret things differently. Has he asked someone out to the prom? Does he have to ask someone out to the prom? Will he ask someone out to the prom? Oh, a high schooler and his romantic problems. They were big back then, big enough to spur me to write love notes on tissue paper during retreats. (I'm not going there.) They grow bigger when it stops being about your hormones and more about your emotions - and, at the same time, when you realize that you have to do something about it, else you fudge your chances forever.

I'm still jaded, but I'm pretty thankful I haven't been to a prom. It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience, you say, but so what? It's just booze and cheesy love songs, or so the American template says. If I had that template I probably would've committed suicide by now, languishing at the thought that I haven't asked, say, Jill out. You see everyone with someone, and you're very much alone, and people will tell you not to gloat one bit, because it's your fault you're painfully insecure. I'll say, in a presumed noogie-like fashion, such are the vagaries of love.

That said, I somehow wish my brother gets it right. He's more or less popular, but it doesn't mean he'll get it right. Sooner or later he'll have to ask my advice about something. But that'd entail him ceasing to think that I'm a social loser, which means I still have a long way to go. But whatever. it's just one day out of three hundred and sixty-five. And a fourth.

Start over

2011-02-08T18:11:00.002+08:00

I think I could be forgiven for thinking it's another hoax being spread through text messages. But I turned on the television instead, and the news channels were on a frenzy.

Angelo Reyes was shot.

My dad's text message actually said he was killed by that gunshot wound - one to the chest - but the news channels were still waiting for verification. All that time I was watching the words fly on my television screen, and remembering what's been happening over the past few weeks, all I could say was "wow".

Angelo Reyes, of course, was the former chief of our armed forces. He was also former secretary of defense. And, later, the environment. And, later, energy. In the nine years Gloria Arroyo sat as president, Reyes occupied various positions, never mind that it didn't seem to fit his qualifications as a retired member of the military. It's what we'd call "pagtanaw ng utang na loob" - rewarding someone who's been loyal to you all these years through high-profile government positions.

Inevitably, that status meant Reyes became a controversial figure. I don't remember every bit he got tangled into over the past ten years, but I do remember his name floating around the past couple of weeks. Of course, nobody could escape that. When former AFP comptroller Carlos Garcia - who was accused of plundering military funds for personal gain - managed to get a plea bargain agreement and walk free, things inevitably snowballed. A Senate investigation (another one of those, yes) was called, and George Rabusa, a former budget officer for the armed forces, revealed the existence of a "pabaon" system within the military. High-ranking officials would get huge sums of money by means of welcoming them to the circle. Leave that circle, and you get money again. The source, allegedly, were numerous funds set up for other purposes, notably the long-delayed modernization of the Army. It ended up in some people's pockets.

Names floated. Yesterday we heard of military wives getting a cut. The past few days we heard of government auditors allegedly getting cuts, too, as Heidi Mendoza - she who looked into the AFP books and, upon seeing some discrepancies, was told to act as if it doesn't exist - released her frustrations. And then, of course, there was Rabusa, he who launched the first bombshell. The first name they floated was that of Reyes, who, according to him, received P50 million upon retiring from the military. The night after that revelation, he went to TV Patrol, denying everything. And then he filed libel cases.

But from where I am, his getting embroiled in this is no surprise. He's the guy who earned flak for running for a party list position, claiming to represent the transport sector, when people think he'll just be another Arroyo crony. It seems that everything he does is closely scrutinized, and considering what happened in the nine years Arroyo sat as president, well, he's become one of the bad guys.

I'm not saying that he isn't, though, but definitely some people have. That explains the "wow" I said, over and over, while watching the news this morning. Someone must've followed him and, in frustration over his alleged corrupt practices - especially with corruption in the AFP dominating the headlines, like it should be - shot him in the chest, in front of his mother's grave, in a cemetery in Marikina. When I first tuned in, reports said that he was being revived at a nearby hospital. Minutes later, authorities have confirmed that he didn't make it. Minutes later, they're saying it's a suicide.

Angelo Reyes shot himself.

At least according to a witness, a caretaker to a nearby grave. He pulled out a gun, pointed it to his chest, and shot himself. One to the heart, and it's over.

"Nagpakamatay raw," I texted my dad.

"Sana sumunod na yung ibang magnanakaw," he replied. And then, another one. "Kapag lahat ng magnanakaw sa government nag-suicide gaya niya eh baka maubos sila. At least siya nakonsensiya."

"Kudos to him, then."

"Di rin. It was his easy way out. Tinakasan na niya. Mayaman pa rin pamilya niya. Sana yung asawa niya mag-testify na rin after."

"Ie-excuse niya, she's grieving. Makakalimutan rin after."

"Unfortunately ganun na nga mangyayari. Since namatayan na, hindi na siya kasama sa investigation. Yaman pa rin family niya."

"Eh wealth yun, eh. Sinong sira ang magpapakawala nun? Lalo na kung 'nagpakahirap' ka."

"It would have been great if he just testified and gave up his wealth. Unfortunately, yung family eh suwapang din."

"Runs in the family, kumbaga."

"Kinain na ng sistema."

I remember a conversation I had with Dinna a few weeks back. Another one of those online friends I met through Valerie and her love of David Cook, she was similarly frustrated at how prevalent corruption is. She's from Indonesia, which looks like it's recovering from my perspective - but she'll say it isn't. ("We have a hot case of tax corruption which turns out [involves] every government department. Those bastards.") I'm from the Philippines, and with these stories floating around every single day, well, who can't help but feel sad? Here you are, hoping for the best, and you have a bureaucracy that does what it says on the tin, and a president who vows to set things straight, but doesn't have an inkling of an idea what to do. Well, except lambasting past administrations and glorifying himself. You have revelations of military corruption - an open secret, because when you're "the son of a general", you get to drive a luxury car and feign recollection of buying it - and you have a president who says he isn't surprised, but doesn't suggest a way of doing anything about it, even if he's commander-in-chief.

"Guess it'll be the end of the world before everything gets better," she said.

"Or at least our lives," I said.

"Or at least our lives, indeed. Well, if not our generation then I hope our kids would be the one to beat it."

"That's a hard one. They follow by example. We may do something, but the rest won't, so it's all for naught."

"Ouch. You got a point. The problem is, the bad people outnumber the good ones so the system is in chaos."

Over the past couple of weeks - with the evening newscasts inundated with reports of carjackers and corrupt officials - I thought, man, the Philippines absolutely needs a reset. Start over, and by that, I mean start over. Our memories will be wiped and we'll start everything from scratch. We'll have people who are genuinely concerned for the country rather than for their return of investment in the elections. We'll have media who stop aiming for the gut (imagine a report on the chaos in Egypt emphasizing the lack of food rather than the political movement) and aim to enrich them. We'll have responsibility rather than obligations. We'll have vision rather than dreams.

And then you realize that, a hundred years into this, we're absolutely screwed. We have people with pockets like that of the Doctor's. We have a system that works for those who can fill up those pockets - it's dimensionally transcendental, thanks to Time Lord technology - rather than those who just need it. Angelo Reyes is just another example - him espousing corruption in the military, those are allegations, of course, but the Senate hearings have been suspended, and his next of kin have started blaming Rabusa's revelations for his suicide, in between grieving, but not worrying about his funeral, because they can afford it, and then some. All the time, to us watching on our televisions, his death is out of guilt - he categorically denies everything but we are not as dumb as the media wants us to be. And selfishness, for the same reasons.

To quote Dinna, "I've lost optimism toward my country way a long time ago." And never mind the people who think they can make a change. We have to start over, but we won't allow ourselves to do it.

The near death of storytelling

2011-02-06T22:27:00.000+08:00

I'm trying to make the most of the time left before QTV transforms itself into an all-news channel. Not that I particularly like most of the programs there, but I find myself enjoying the old films - the really old films - airing on Sunday afternoons. It's a shame that'll go when the channel flips. There's something fascinating with the way films look in the 1950s: a no-frills title sequence, fairly rudimentary shots, and all those scratches that inevitably happen when films of national importance don't get treated the way they should. That, or I still have a hangover from studying films for three years.

A couple of weeks back, I tuned into Mga Kuwento ni Lola Basyang by chance. There wasn't much to do at my grandmother's house, and somehow I managed to convince both her and my mother to watch a movie from three generations ago. Apart from the familiar faces - Dolphy and Gloria Romero anchored their respective segments, and there was, as my mom pointed out, Paraluman of Ang Huling El Bimbo fame - everything seemed so new.

Not just to me, it turns out. The storytelling part of the film - the bit where Lola Basyang gathers the children round and tells her trademark stories - was set on Christmas eve. "Hindi kayo puwedeng matulog," she told some of the children. "Hindi pa ipinapanganak ang batang Hesus." It was a new concept to my mom, who wasn't born until the middle of the 1960s. And it was a new concept to my grandmother, who's in the middle of her 70s. We all know we're supposed to sleep the night before Christmas, and wake up just as midnight strikes, to celebrate both the birth of Christ and the time when we can finally open Santa's gifts. That, or we came from a totally different universe together.

What we all understood was the fact that kids nowadays don't care for stories told by their grandmothers. In the 1950s - or, at least, in the movies - we have kids who were willing to sit around for thirty minutes while listening to a totally fantastic story about a cowardly man who learns to stand up to his fate and his love. "Ngayon puro PSP na ang hawak," I bluntly said, an obvious allusion to my brother, who was quite bored I could imagine him doing just that. "Tapos, kung magbabasa man ng libro, either napipilitan lang sila, o ang pangit-pangit nung binabasa nila." Half that statement's another allusion to my brother, who once attempted to cheat his way through a book report by relying on Wikipedia. The other half's just me being snobbish - a misplaced attempt at that, since I'm not a big book reader. But I still read books. I enjoyed my David Copperfield book report, thank you very much.

I guess nobody cares about stories anymore. Okay, sure, maybe they do, but nobody's willing to dig deep into them lest they be tagged as nerds and lose out on certain social privileges forever. I'm sure The Vampire Diaries has something juicy to bite into, but really, all we care about is Ian Somerhalder, right?

I was at the bookstore earlier, trying to dig for that Doctor Who novel I told my sister about in the shelves clearly marked "for sale". Half an hour earlier my iPod mysteriously died: it claimed to have run out of power, when it's clearly still halfway there, although I know it's starting to feel jumpy after three years of service. Thus, while digging through outdated London travel guides, I heard this kid pester his aunt (or so I think, and I have a reason why I think so) about a book.

"No, it's too expensive," she explained.

The kid mumbled a few words, probably still trying to state his case. The aunt had a pretty good zinger. "This is the sort of thing you save money for. Let tita make ipon for this, okay?"

That's when I finally looked up from the bargain books, and see the aunt hold up a graphic novel. The kid wants to read a comic book. It's a good compromise, still, since he gets to read something. He's not budging, though. The aunt shows him a wrapped copy of Watchmen and tells him that he can borrow her copy. A better compromise - it's so good it could be a novel. The critics said so. And I read it myself, having borrowed my sister's copy.

Minutes later, I heard a baby cry. There's this little kid, being dragged out (I exaggerate here, but you get the point) by her mother, who was a bit furious. "No, you can't open the book," she said, perhaps in vain, as the boy just cried and cried.

At least he's interested in stories, and in reading those stories, and, I hope, in digging through them. Well, maybe until he discovers that these books get screen adaptations with pretty stars assuming their favorite characters, and things stop being about the characters and more about the people playing them. I mean, it's inevitable. We went from fairy tales to Ian Somerhalder, or in my case, Emilie de Ravin. They'll go from fairy tales to attacking anyone who vaguely disagrees with anything Justin Bieber-related. Or maybe they already have. Oh, yes, right, they already have.

Trial and error (and error and error and error)

2011-01-31T17:35:00.000+08:00

It's the end of the month, and I didn't get the call.

I sort of saw it coming, because Friday passed and it still wasn't there. True, I wasn't really excited about it, but I still had the feeling that I will get it. The interview went well. I can say so myself: I had good answers and better questions, and I didn't leave with an empty feeling in my chest, whispering, "what the hell did you get yourself into?" I had a really good feeling about it, and then I'll find out that I wasn't even considered. Someone else beat me to it.

That should trigger my usual diatribes about how unfair the world is. I always thought that way. There was an interesting conversation I heard on Mancunian radio last week. Never mind that it's a conversation within the context of the North West, because it works perfectly in my context, too. You can't get a job without work experience. You can't get work experience without a job. The news came to me the same way everything else that came before it. I'll realize the dream is over. I'll be hurt. I'll start quoting Squidward after he squeezes a lemon wedge in his eye rather than on his cup of tea. "Why do I even bother?"

All of that did happen. And then nothing.

I was at the mall yesterday. I realize that I hate going to the mall. All those people winding the weekend down, with their preppy outfits and the smug smiles on their faces. It still annoys me. It's like they know what I'm going through - three years of getting screwed - and they know my name, and they'll say, "Niko, just give up and be a call center agent, because that's all you're meant to be." And I'll try not to scream back at them.

I was told not to be discouraged. Everybody's telling me that. I'm just young, and I am supposed to try and try until I make it somehow. Trial and error. And error, and error, and error, and error, and error, and error. I have friends who got it right on the first try. On the first fucking try. It's hard to be happy for them when you can't do the same for yourself, because you keep comparing yourself to them, because you were in the same place and you're much better. That delusion. It never fails.

Maybe I should change my mindset. I noticed it myself. I was trying to be a little more optimistic about things. I'm changing for the better. Soon I will be formidable. And then I try until I make it somehow. And I fail, again and again. I have a safety net but it's never enough. I have friends who got it right on the first try. I have friends who didn't, but are still better off than I am. But I keep my head up. After five years of whining I owe it to myself to see things differently. Or maybe, I owe it to everybody else who's irritated at me. I did it myself, and I forget about what happened.

Nothing's working anymore. The circumstances are different now. I have done my best, but people still manage to screw things up. Nobody fucking cares. More so for folks like me. So what else is left to do, when you can't try anymore, even if everybody tells you to try, and to keep your head up?

I'm just blogging about it now, because I don't care anymore.

I don't fucking care anymore.

About each other and amongst ourselves

2011-01-23T15:47:00.003+08:00

Let's talk about that pre-nuptial video, shall we?

To be honest, I actually forgot about that pre-nuptial video. I remember reading about it in the newspaper and shrugging it off. Well, I thought, if that's how they celebrate their love, then so be it. A week later, I'm watching Sunday showbiz talk shows and promptly found out that the video's been labeled as controversial, and all because Maggie Wilson (not to be confused with the woman who ruined the mood at the Allison Iraheta concert) and her beau decided to have a sizzling pre-nuptial video.

I mean, so what if that clip involves the couple pretty much making out in different settings, tastefully (or snazzily, whatever) shot? If that's how they celebrate their love, then so be it. And, of course, there's the fact that what you see on the video will happen after the wedding anyway. And then the report continues - "Maggie Wilson, magsasalita na tungkol sa kontrobersiyal nilang pre-wedding video," that patronizing voiceover said - and I realize something. Right, the bride has a TV show coming up.

That, and the report proceeds to talk about where the video was found. Proud filmmaker uploaded it on his website, where he explains that he charges this much for stuff like it. Of course, he just takes the footage and edits it...

It's been months since that so-called controversy came up, and I'm reading the newspaper again. They got married, so said the headline on the front of one of those snobbish Sunday lifestyle sections - those sections that talk about what everybody else (who can afford it) is up to. Sometimes it's an interesting read, but more often than not it's annoying. You spend your weekends reading the newspaper. One day it talks about all the latest trends, in a tone that screams, "We're pop culture writers, we're awesome!" and "Oh, by the way, we're not screaming at all!" The following day, it talks about all the beautiful people. No need to scream, because it's all out there. We have the name. We have the means. We are entitled to be celebrities. We are entitled to talk about each other and amongst ourselves.

I guess I must be a closet communist, or at least a budding one. I was never this uncomfortable with how opulent people can be. Then again, when I was reading the newspaper at age seven, I never had an inkling of the term "social inequality". Blissfully unaware, perhaps, which is how they like it, I now realize. There's also the fact that we, essentially, talk about the same things. We also get married. We go to parties. We like certain celebrities. But they have church weddings with lavish receptions and newspaper coverage, while we have to wait in line at city hall. They get high on ecstasy (I am that delayed) while we get drunk on brandy. They believe in the power of Sufjan Stevens, while we'll do anything to watch Willing Willie.

Fine, Novaliches is far and I'm not that desperate for money, but you know what I mean.

So, yes, we essentially do the same things, and yet those with more seem to be obligated to bring our tastes down. I'm not saying I don't do this - I remain skeptical of the Korean invasion, believing you cannot replicate Beatlemania. Yes, I'm being snobbish. And yes, I'm being fake, because I grew up with pop tracks that you'd hear in the mass-appeal radio stations, and now I act as if I hate them. But if you are to get an advantage in life, you might as well suck up to people who have more. Be like them, even if it wouldn't bring them to your side. What can a boy who lives in Cavite, never mind my "we're 15 minutes away from Alabang" explanation, do? What more for the rest who aren't that well-off? I can imagine - note, imagine - the subtext those snobbish articles are yelling. We set the agenda. When we write about this fashion blogger, we say she is god. Her word is law. Your style is irrelevant, except when we decide to write about it, and only to point out everything that's wrong about it.

It's just how the world works. It's just how the world I live in works. Our car was stolen in front of our house a few years back. It's not a gated subdivision, but it's still a subdivision, with security and all. Nobody created Task Force Batallones to find where that car went. Or maybe I have to be killed and burned first? No, I don't have money. I'm not denying that what happened to Emerson Lozano and Verson Evangelista isn't tragic, but if not for the fact that the former's father is an influential lawyer best known for all those impeachment complaints, nothing will happen. There won't be a special task force who will connect those murders to the death of a starlet. There won't be reactions from the eternally spineless Malacañang. We won't be scared of driving our cars to work.

Okay, sure, there's that fear - we can talk about those kids who demand loose change from you when you're stuck in traffic along SLEX, but we can only forward emails around! We cannot have the media on our side, giving sixty minutes per newscast to our every emotion and anything spuriously connected to it, the same way they scream about Margarita Fores ("pinsang buo ni Mar Roxas!") getting robbed of her car. Same way nobody will give a damn if I had a pre-nuptial video making out with my hypothetical future wife, unless it's a reaction akin to "nakakadiri ka naman, Niko!"

I'm not forgetting Ernane Sensil. I'm mentioning him last to illustrate my point, unless, of course, you've already dismissed it because I'm not someone like Maggie Wilson, who deserves to get all that mileage out of nothing.

Our sorry state of health

2011-01-17T18:17:00.002+08:00

Apparently Jose Fabella - the guy after whom the hospital was named - was the country's first secretary of health. Appointed by President Manuel Quezon before the war, he was, according to a memorial marker, given a free hand to implement reforms he deemed necessary. The guy devoted his time to establishing programs and systems aiming to improve the health of expectant mothers and their children, which explains why the Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital is where pregnant mothers go to give birth - and why it always features during New Year's Eve newscasts, when reporters set out to look for babies who will be born at midnight.

I found myself with a smirk while reading that memorial marker. Thanks to his undying efforts and enthusiasm - I'm paraphrasing here because I failed to bring a camera - the Philippines is now at par with other progressive countries in maternal and children's health, in the cities and in rural areas. And yet the Jose Fabella Memorial Hospital, like most public medical buildings in the country, isn't exactly up to speed with the latest developments - or, at least, so the newscasts suggest. I mean, I've aware of private (and really high-end) hospitals with equipment so advanced it's hard to pronounce. Their marketing staff go out of their way to say that they offer "world-class" service. And here I am, in a public hospital, where fees are considerably less expensive, but everything else seem to be in short order. Or so the newscasts suggest.

So why was I there in the first place? My aunt, who lives twenty minutes away from us, is expecting her second child. She's due tomorrow. They aren't exactly well-off, so my uncle - my mother's brother - asked if we could bring them to the hospital when the day comes. Yesterday my aunt noticed some spotting - I don't know what that means, but she was also experiencing some pain, so they thought that labor was imminent. My dad drove the car and I provided the company, for what might be a pretty long night.

Yes, my aunt also lives in Cavite, and that's made their decision to have their baby daughter delivered at Fabella a bit confusing. The hospital's deep inside Manila, conveniently hidden near the slums that surround the Manila City Jail. It's an hour away from our place. Their seven-year-old, a rambunctious bloke we call Tak, was born in a hospital in Las Piñas. And there's a couple of hospitals a few minutes away from their house!

Turns out my aunt's doctor is based in Fabella. And, somehow, they decided to stick with the guy the whole way. There's also the fact that it's much cheaper there, and compared to other public hospitals, it's pretty well-equipped. Fortunately the hour-long trip was smooth - my aunt wasn't yet in pain, but the doctor suggested that when spotting occurs she could give birth any time.

Fabella is dubbed as a "baby factory" for a reason: mothers go there to give birth. It wasn't particularly packed when we get there, but we saw relatives literally setting up camp at the main entrance, as well as the entrance to the emergency room. A lot of mats, a lot of people sleeping there - and, in the case of one family who were waiting in front of the emergency room, a bunch of picnic baskets. "Kulang na lang, damo," I told my not-so-anxious uncle, recalling childhood trips to Tagaytay. I cannot recall, of course, what happens when there are many people in the hospital.

Outside the emergency room, a handful of pregnant mothers were seated. Apparently, that's where you wait when you cannot be admitted to the hospital yet, because you aren't yet giving birth. The idea is, you check yourself in, have yourself checked, and wait for the go-signal to be admitted. Labor pains? Dilated vagina? Broken water? (That doesn't sound right.) Go in. Otherwise, you wait. If you live far away and cannot afford to go back and forth, you wait. Maybe marvel at how old the building is. Think about how much more comfortable it would be if, like Ale and Ranice, you had a little more money and could afford to get yourself in a private hospital. Not necessarily those high-end ones - just somewhere with a cushion, rather than painted-over metal.

The Philippines is now at par with other progressive countries in maternal and children's health, in the cities and in rural areas.

"Baka naiwan sila sa 1953," my mother said when I told her about it. But the more plausible explanation came from my dad, who explained to me - well, reminded me - how prosperous the Philippines was after the war, thanks in part to post-war compensation from the Americans, but mostly to the fact that our leaders were still patriotic. I can imagine that, back in 1953, Fabella shouted "state-of-the-art!" Now, of course, it isn't. I haven't been inside, but we're heard it over and over again - our public hospitals not being able to accommodate everyone, because they don't have what the patients need. And by that, I mean either equipment or beds, both of which are available in private hospitals that cost a lot more. And then I'd think about how everything became about politics than service, and then to how Martial Law kept us stuck in the past while our neighbors zoomed ahead, and how we all complain when someone well-meaning proposes an idea that's reasonably restrictive but, logically, should work out well in the long run. "Kawawa naman kaming mga Pilipino!"

My aunt wasn't admitted. She wasn't due to give birth yet; it's all because of the medicines she was taking. We went home, still unusually quiet. Within twenty-four hours after she arrived home, her water will break, and my mother will be forced to bring our car - it's a Monday, and our car's plate ends in a 2 - and do everything all over again. And my rambunctious cousin - "si mama, buntis!" he told me last night - will be a big brother to Sabrina, just as I promised him last night. It's a promise I failed to deliver. Not that I have to. It's not really up to me.

The middle of January

2011-01-14T17:24:00.000+08:00

"Indeed! We have run out of material!"

It's a random - well, not really - message that I sent Gwen last night. I'm not bent on talking about why it isn't that random. Let's just say that it is, well, random.

Let's just also say that we had a pretty good conversation last night. It lasted for two hours, maybe three, although it only involved the two of us entering words into mobile phones. A pretty good conversation, since we talked about a bunch of things - and I didn't feel a bit conscious about it, which was odd. It just went one way and we went with it, even if it meant my mom catching me smiling after reading a text message.

Maybe I didn't smile. A smirk, maybe? An evil, relishing-your-despair type of smirk?

The conversation went on. Again, we just went with it.

"She was nicer to me," I said. "I was no threat."

"And you must admit, you do have a crush on her?"

"Have I not told you that? I did. A short one until we talked, long before which I had another flavor of the week."

"Oh, flavors."

We're two hours in - or maybe one, I'm not sure - and that's when I feel a bit conscious. There's always a point in the conversation when it just stops without warning. You run out of things to say, and you even forget that you have to say goodbye - but lately you don't really have to say goodbye unless you're talking in person. It also happens that I feel conscious of what the guy I'll hide under the pseudonym "Tim" told me a few years back. Not that it has to do with anything.

"Whaaaat. You know what I mean. Men go from Olivia Munn to some school cutie."

"Yeah, I do. I have more guy friends than girls. And I'm giving up on that."

"It'd be awkward to see you spend time with girls, though. Extended periods of time."

By this time I'm already in bed, rereading a couple of old magazines. I've finished an article on Today when I realize that Gwen won't be replying to that message. The conversation has stopped.

I somehow hate that feeling. The best part of a conversation is towards the end, yes, but it's because it ends just when you start enjoying it. You get the groove, and then it's over. You're left waiting for something that you committed yourself to. And nobody has the courtesy to say goodbye. Not that I'm blaming Gwen. She always did that, except for the night we actually talked in person, and only because we didn't have a choice but to say goodbye. I mean, I can't walk out of the coffee shop while making fun of her inability to browse Twitter through her since-replaced mobile, right?

I've long tried to arrange another coffee date with her, but she's been busy. This time, she said, she won't be as busy, since she only has a few classes, three days a week, and thesis to deal with. But it's better, she said, if we met up early this month. Just I give her a date and she'll make a way.

I've been in a state of flux so far. Time has stopped, or gone really slow. It's the middle of January and I haven't given her a date.

Spoiler alert!

2010-12-31T22:02:00.000+08:00

I don't think my sister is annoyed at this habit of mine, but I do it to do just that. Whenever she buys a new book, I take it from her, flip to the last page, go to her, and yell "spoiler!" only to read the very last word in the actual text.

Of course, that last word won't make any sense. It's "you". It's "casserole". It's "cheerleader". It doesn't really spoil anything as you have, say, a hundred thousand words to get through before you get to the very end. That word is out of context. Terribly out of context, at least until you figure out what happened in between.

Not everybody really appreciates it, though. Remember the Lost finale? "It's all about the journey, son," Christian told Jack, giving us this not-so-subtle hint that it's about those in Oceanic 815, and not the mysteries of the DHARMA Initiative. Not everybody liked it. Sure, the series was really floated as a character drama, but people got so invested in the mysteries that they got annoyed when the initial thrust returned in the finale, and in the middle of the finale. Fine, they handled that badly, but looking back, it is about the journey, else that last word - "bear" or "Island" or "Hurley" - would terribly be out of context.

I don't know what my last word is. Surely it has something to do with death, right? It might be "grave" or "earth". But fine, I'll stop being ridiculous and focus on the more immediate future. The only semblance of a last word that I have comes from that feng shui master my father once consulted. Remember that bit about my next ten years being a bunch of ups and downs before I settle down in some degree of success? Let's say the last word is "happy". Somehow my book will end that way. At least before I die and make everyone around me sad.

Now, I want to be happy and successful now, but things haven't really been favorable to me. Friends? Middling. Romance? Hesitant. Career? Stuck. Heck, I just got a letter from the mail today, confirming the very fear I had a few weeks back. But when I opened the letter, I was actually grinning.

Sure, it's how complicated things can get. I wanted to quit my job but I couldn't, and now I'm pretty much without a job. Quitting will make me happy. Quitting will make me anxious. Quitting will restore my hope. This is crazy. I am crazy. Everybody has said so and now I don't understand what's going on, especially why I'm being quite optimistic about it. Or, at least, not as cynical, like being told I've changed and not exactly countering it. Or saying goodbye to old friends, and saying hello to new ones, and remaining unsure about everybody else. Or all these new experiences, like this, and bleep, and bleep. And they'll somehow make sense of that last word, in a decade or so. The question is, of course, how.

"It's all about the journey, son," Christian told Jack, before a weird reunion scene in what turned out to be the afterlife. Nobody liked it, but looking back, it made sense. Only you don't have much time to celebrate being happy and all. That last word becomes a short-lived thing, before it gets replaced by "grave" or "earth" or something. Before you know it, those new friends and new experiences and restored hope in something - humanity, romance, whatever - it goes poof. But you were living it all this time, not dwelling on it.

Communication breakdown?

2010-12-24T17:33:00.000+08:00

How do you prevent your Christmas messages from sounding very cheesy? Insert some much-needed cynicism.

I'll be honest: 2010 didn't go that well, but it could've been worse.

Fine, that isn't exactly cynical. When I sent that message to 72 people - a surprisingly bigger number compared to last year's extravaganza - I realized that it sounds cheesier, because it pretty much celebrated the person on the other end. Yay, you! it went. So thanks for the company (and strings!) and here's to a better 2011. Happy holidays!

But the admission is still there: this year sucked, especially since this was the year when I told myself I'll get myself out of this rut and improve things. Or, did I tell that to myself, or did I cram that promise again? Damn you, complacency. But you can't really be cynical when the facts suggest that it could've been much worse. It could've been much worse. I'm really just glad for the company, even if it doesn't amount to much.

Thing is, at the end of the day, now that I'm seated here and writing my traditional Christmas eve what-did-people-reply blog entry, it didn't really amount to much. Sure, I didn't get a "who are you?" text message like I always did, but I guess people are just too busy... or the phone lines are already fudged at fifteen before eight in the morning.

From Carmel Puertollano: Niko! Di na kita nakakausap sa YM! Insert laughter, which I wouldn't write here, of course. Happy holidays to you.

From Carmel Puertollano again, after I explained that YM tends to crash my PC: Ako rin, di na nagwa-YM. Wala na akong laptop eh. Cue more laughter.

From Anna Abola: I haaate 2010. More laughter. Here's to a beautiful 2011! Merry christmas, Niko, followed by a smiley, which I also wouldn't write here.

From Anna Abola again, after I pointed out that there are two zeros this year: I know. She sent this twice, oddly.

From Samantha Pagkalinawan: 2010 passed by so fast... it wasn't as exciting as the past year, but I'm glad I survived. Now this is cheesy. On the flipside, I got her number right! She has three numbers listed on my phone and only one of them works, and I really had to guess which one it is. Hoping for a better and exciting 2011 for you, and for me, manedyer. Old biter references, yes. Happy holidays, Henrik! Wait, she called me Henrik?

From Drea Dizon: Bakit namaaaan?

From Drea Dizon, after I gave her a shortened variation of the explanation I posted early in this entry: Okay. 2011 will be better. Merry Christmas!

From Erik Lozano, who surprisingly replied: Cheers to a better 2011. Happy holidays! Or was this a generic message? I shouldn't complain. I sent a generic message myself.

From Joy Simpson: Happy holidays, Niko! Have a great time at Bangkok! Yes, I'm flying to Bangkok in a couple of days, and she's been helpful in telling me where to go, since I was, oddly, assigned to do the family's itinerary for a whole week. Wishing you a great 2011, with more opportunities and la-la-la-love.

From Jill Cruz: Happy new year, Niko!

From Kim Malicsi: Happy holidays, Niko! 2011, please don't be harsh. Cue sheepish laughter. God bless!

From Issa Arias, who finally made it to this entry: Happy holidays, Henrik.

From Krizzie Syfu: A lot of people say that 2010's been a bitch. Cue laughter. Right, you must laugh this year being a bitch off. But don't give up just yet! A few more days for 2010 to make up to ya! I'm sure she meant Bangkok, right? Happy holidays!

From Icka Alcantara: Happy holidays, Niko!

From Mae Ong, who barely made it: Hey Niko! Merry Christmas to you, too.

Twelve people. Twelve people! I'd complain at this point, but considering that at this point people have moved on and have become busy even on a holiday, well, I should understand. Or maybe they're preparing messages for tomorrow. Or maybe the phone lines have crashed this early on, like they seem to be over the past few weeks. But that's just me being cynical. I'll admit, my Christmas greeting is partly fueled by an unusual feeling of loneliness over the past couple of months or so.

Or maybe we're all going through that stage collectively? That reminds me of my conversation of sorts with Ning last night. Exact same points. I'll take Krizzie's advice to heart now, and proceed to pin all my hopes on Bangkok. Happy holidays, kids! There are two ones in 2011, remember.

That was cheesy, yes.

Moustache

2010-12-18T23:50:00.000+08:00

Depending on how style magazines have shaped your definition of grooming, I'm either decently groomed or terribly unkempt. It's harder to define when you ask me. All I know is, I don't feel very dirty when I'm out, and I try to keep my appearance in check whenever I can. But I don't brush my hair, and my face isn't exactly as flawless as those men's magazines want you to think. If I understood it correctly, it probably means lots of make-up.

My philosophy is simple: if you have to work on it, then by all means, do so. I wash my face, nothing fancy, a lesson I somehow picked up from Anna, someone I met in high school, who once suggested that I wash my face just with water when I had a pimple breakout. (I should say I adapted the tip, since I use a facial wash nowadays.) I have monthly visits to the barber, and over the years I've pretty much figured out what to ask. My hair's been compared to a carpet, which makes every attempt to style it a bit of a nightmare, so I just ask for a shave and some snips. I can't call it a buzz cut, but I don't know what else to call "semi-kalbo, tres".

Save for one instance when I accidentally asked for a shampoo and a hair treatment and ended up shelling out five hundred bucks - a story Jackie, who was then still in the country, spun as a chance for me to pamper myself on my birthday - I've stuck with the haircut, and then some. My carpet-like hair leads to slightly unruly facial hair, which I never really paid attention to until my burgeoning moustache started to tickle my upper lip ever so slightly. Now, I've always looked up to my dad for his grooming - nothing fancy, but he does go to proper business events, and he's my dad - and he suggested that I have my barber pass his scissors through my moustache and trim it a bit.

So, every two months or so - well, actually, whenever I remember it - I ask my barber to trim my moustache. I was advised not to shave it, something about the hair that will grow back getting tougher to remove. I never really understood that logic, but it does make sense when you think about underarm hair, which I've never thought of trimming. Yes, since I mentioned it, it took me twenty-one years to learn how to shave, and it's because the hairs on my chin are starting to tickle me ever so slightly. I got a lesson from my dad, as well as permission to use his shaver once in a while, and it felt surreal when I ended up teaching my younger brother how to shave, since I am 21 and he is 15.

But that leaves my upper lip still in the hands of my barbers. I'd ask them to trim it, and they'd leave me hanging just a little bit. The problem is, I'm never really clear with what I want, but I want my moustache trimmed more than just a couple of snips. My dad doesn't have a moustache, but look closely (read: stare at his face) and you'll see the hairs barely there. I want it that way. The moustache sort of defines my look now - well, it's really more of me getting used to it, in the same way black-framed glasses define my look - and I can't get rid of it. My uncle once had his moustache removed, and it looked really weird, because he had this thick, brushy moustache, suggesting his age.

Today I had my usual haircut, but I was in a different barber shop. I usually had my haircuts after work, which meant swinging by at the Shang and flipping through the aforementioned men's magazines, telling you that what you do is far from enough. In this case, I decided to have my hair cut by my dad's preferred barber in Alabang - the shop decided that their barbers' Christmas bonuses would come from all that they earn on this particular day, with management not taking a single cent. I was glad to pitch in, although I was reminded of my little dreams of having my preferred barber, of having to ask "andiyan si Mar?" every time I come in, of having someone to chat with rather than being forced to reread tattered copies of Men's Health.

I asked Mar - that is the barber's name - to have my moustache trimmed. Instead of using scissors, he had a razor blade. I'd call it a labaha, but I can't call it a barber's knife. The end result: I look like my uncle. Or, when you factor in my haircut and my glasses, I look like Boy Abunda, which is exactly what all my high school classmates called me. My dad had this bewildered look. I just said - covered my tracks, or spun it positively, whatever - by saying that I'd rather have a fresh start, so my upper lip won't look so unkempt in a month's time. But man, I couldn't get it right.

That family affair

2010-12-14T11:31:00.002+08:00

I'm only supposed to talk about how my Christmas shopping came in at the worst possible time.

The irony is, all I wanted to do was to avoid the Christmas rush, so the gloves came off over the past two weeks. Well, there is another reason: I just wanted to get the process over with, because the overexcited part of me has been holding on to those gift ideas as early as July.

Yes, July. That was when the family wandered into a record store, for some particular reason. My dad was looking at this live CD of Paul McCartney, and when I realized he was taking a serious interest in it, I automatically thought it should be my Christmas gift for him.

Now, I don't really take these things seriously, but I do have the tendency to keep all these notes in my head many weeks, if not months, in advance. On the day I went to Fully Booked I bought myself a Christmas gift - yep, it's the Ingrid Betancourt book, which I finished reading last week - and I found a book that I thought my sister would be interested in. At the time she was going through an Oscar Wilde phase, a hangover from ten terms of studying literature. I found a book about the author - note, not one of his works, but a book about him.

Thing is, when I buy gifts for people, I take it as a chance to, well, impose my tastes on them. Yes, I don't take my Christmas gifts too seriously, which explains why that chance doesn't always come into the picture. But while my sister prefers reading fiction, I figured she'll appreciate reading non-fiction about things she's interested in. My sister will be forced to read a non-fiction book because I said so! Cue another mental note: I'll pick the book up when I return to that Fully Booked branch.

Thing is, I never had the chance to return. The usual complaint, of course, goes somewhere along the lines of it's totally against the way. And with many other bookstores around me, well, why should I get out of my way?

Somewhere along the way, though, my sister has a change of heart, sort of. "Gusto ko ng Hunger Games," she said, already buoyed by testimonies, from her friends, on how good (supposedly) the trilogy is. Not that I mind, but when she told me that I'm only seeing the expensive hardbound versions on shelves, never mind that she's only asking for the first book. I ended up buying all three - although, yes, it's the paperbound box set that's popped up in bookstores in recent weeks. All three books for a thousand bucks. Perfect Christmas gift. Wonderfully spazzed-out reaction from my sister. There goes Gwen's month-old suggestion.

My gift plans for my dad went to a halt when Music One closed its remaining shops. The Paul McCartney CD went poof with it. Sure, there are many other record stores around, but I couldn't find it anywhere, which is unusual on one hand, and expected on another - proof that the Philippines is screwed when it comes to music choice. (Unless, of course, you define "choice" as "derivatives of the guy who's supposedly snogging Selena Gomez".) But this year is the year when Yoko Ono decided to mark the death of her husband by rereleasing all of his solo albums. John Lennon's greatest hits compilation! It totally makes sense! Getting a text message from my dad the following day - "I love it!" - reaffirmed my faith in the cosmos for a good five seconds.

My plans for my mother, on the other hand, didn't really exist. In the two years I've been giving holiday gifts, I made it a point to ask her what she wanted - it's hard to second guess what your mom wants when you're male, after all. This year she wanted a top from Adidas, one she particularly spotted during another mall trip a month ago. I could've bought it then, but I was still holding back on my money. I'd later regret that decision: when we went back to the store, the folks revealed that the only stock remaining was the one on display. It's slightly dirty and it's not in her size, and we couldn't see it anywhere else.

At the time, however, my mom's starting to have some interest in, of all things, Starbucks mugs. She initially hoped for some friend to give her a tumbler in one of their many Christmas parties, but when my dad went home from London with a mug from the coffee chain that had "London" written (and illustrated) all over, she had a Jimmy Neutron-style brain blast. A collection of Starbucks mugs from all over the world! It totally makes sense! So she asked me to buy her a similar mug with "Manila" all over it.

There wasn't one at the Alabang Town Center. I ended up buying her a generic mug. She ended up finding the mug she wanted at a Starbucks branch nearby. I felt like an utter failure.

It was nothing compared to when I started thinking of a gift I'll give my younger brother. I've always given him CDs: Metallica one time, Weezer another time, and Them Crooked Vultures in between. Sure, we don't share the same tastes in music - his preference for metal and hip-hop is pathetic, frankly - but at least I can give him something that he likes. Problem is, he's my younger brother, and we've never really gotten along most of the time. He never played the CDs I gave him, except perhaps for the Metallica one. He never really appreciated my gifts, perfectly summed up when he came up to me and asked me to stop buying him CDs. "Nado-download ko naman yan," he said. "Bigyan mo naman ako ng magagamit ko."

Oh, fuck you, generation gap. I'm making an effort and he never really liked it all along - what could be more disheartening than that? And what do I give him for Christmas? I was supposed to give him the newly-minted Soundgarden compilation, but now I have to think of what a virtual Alabang kid who doesn't know the value of music, refuses to read anything, and rebuffs every attempt I make to ask him about anything.

I've bought outfits for other people before. Last year I gave my father a shirt, but only because I didn't have an inkling what he wanted, and I never got around to ask him. So, sure, I'll just buy my brother one of those collared tops from Human, because they're more likely to fit him than me. (Remember rule number two: guys are not allowed to be insecure about themselves.) Another chance to impose my tastes on people. I'll pick what looks good to me! Then again, I didn't really have a choice - I don't really know what he likes to wear.

Over the weekend I decided to finally buy him a shirt. To boot, I had him come along so I don't act as clueless. On the way, my sister called. "May sale sa Topman," she went. I ended up buying my brother two baseball shirts, or so they're called, both of his choosing, all clocking in neatly under my thousand-peso budget. All the time I was having flashbacks to my second trip to Singapore, when I found myself wandering into a Topman branch, looking to buy myself a shirt, and realizing that nothing fits me - not even its largest size. Damn hipster clothing, I thought. Damn hipsters and their perpetration of body issues. I proceed to break rule number two. My brother has a lot of friends, perhaps a girlfriend, and is way more popular than me. I did the complete opposite and I thought, all this time, that I'm set for the future. All I get is a bruised ego when he brushes me off for trying to be a big brother to him. He has the gall to brush me off.

This whole process is such an asshole. But I'm only supposed to talk about how my Christmas shopping came in at the worst possible time. No further paragraphs. Shutting up now.