Putting on Christmas Weight

Oh, god, I'm putting on so much Christmas weight.

It doesn't help that I'm a stress eater, and as degree holder in that totally useless intellectual pursuit of Philosophy, I'm really wicked in rationalizing. It's not fair, even to me, when I rationalize with myself why I should stuff my face with food. Here are some of my favorite rationalizations for cheating on my diet:

I'm burning this off at the gym tomorrow. This may sound logical. Sometimes, for a particular fitness goal, you need to load up on carbs, protein, and other fuel so you can burn it off. This sounds like the best excuse for someone like me to a.) stuff my face with food, and b.) force myself to the gym. However, I'm quite fickle minded when it comes to my fitness goals. There are days when I want to look crazy beautiful thin like Francisco Lachowski, or insanely fit like that Brody guy in Glee, and sometimes, I wannna be as massive as Dwayne The Rock Johnson. So, it's really frustrating when I eat like a hippo, hoping to run it off like a Cheetah, onlyy to go to the gym and meander around like a pregnant mammoth.

I deserve this for the day I've had. Ok, so sometimes you have one of those days that you just want to stab clients in their weird eyes that look like they're watching people from two different directions. Also, there are days when you're so pleased with something you've done, you feel like you deserve a reward. The worst is when I'm dealing with a particularly difficult client and somehow managing to overcome the challenges, then I eat for, like, 5 people. Two of them drowning their sorrows in carbs, the other two are celebrating, and there's the lonely guy who just came along for the salad.

I will start on my diet tomorrow. AKA, Dead Man's Last Meal. So, once in a while, I get this crazy idea into my head that I am desperate enough to starve myself gorgeous. Usually, this happens after mildly stalking Filipino bodybuilders from my model friends' network of other really insanely fit friends. These guys have a thing called "a season" where they basically obssess about eating nothing but fish and vegetables and protein supplements and spending mad amount of time lifting cars so they can compete in body building competitions. I don't get bodybuilding competitions. It's like it's halfway between a real sport and a beauty pageant, and it's madly competitive. Anyway, dedication to look that way demands an insane amount of discipline, and perhaps, a healthy dose of mental illness.. I have an insane amount of mental illness, and the discipline I have is reserved for BDSM nights with strangers I meet up with from the internet. So, as I browse through galleries after galleries of these almost naked men and their bulging muscles, I can't help but feel the deepest and sincerest of envy. I wish I can look like that. So, immediately after drying my eyes from ugly crying over the physique I so badly want, I make a resolution to never eat anything again, unless it contains 20 grams of protein per serving. This resolution I celebrate the night before by eating a meal equivalent to the weight of Kim Chiu. The next day, I immediately forget about being on a diet because I get distracted by watching American TV shows on my laptop.

I don't get to eat like this everyday.  So, I'm at a restaurant with friends. Or I'm alone, and I'm looking for a place to eat before I write in a coffeeshop. Anyway, I enter a place, with all the intention of ordering the tiniest portion of their lightest salad. My expectations don't go beyond nibbling on a piece of carrot. Instead, I end up ordering like half the menu. Because I'm thinking, I don't get to eat like this everyday. See, I was born poor. I grew up in the ghetto of Kalookan's 3rd Avenue. If you haven't been to Kalookan's 3rd Avenue, count yourself lucky. Now that I have my own job, and I'm making my own money, I suppose I can treat myself to dinner that my parents never could have afforded. Which is a really stupid way to justify eating a 6-course meal alone.

Just so we're clear, I spend an insane amount of time at the gym and training for mixed martial arts. When I'm at the gym, I'm usually all pumped up and sweating my blood out. I'm not like one of those limp guys who go to the gym just so they can check-in on Foursquare. If I increase the intensity of my physical activities, my heart would probably just burst.

The problem is really with how much I'm eating. I wish I have a friend to intervene. It's sad that I would need intervention.

But then, I can always eat the sadness away.

Instant Insecurity

OK, so cameras have "instant sharing" functions now. Basically, the new generation of cameras in the market have a function that lets you share your photos to your social network as soon as you've taken them.

This, plus the fact that mobile networks compete in providing the most affordable and most reliable services in enabling this via 3G or LTE networks.

One can't help but wonder: Have we gone so in need of affirmation that we cannot wait until we process our experiences before sharing them to the world? Why is there a sense of urgency in our insecurity?

Why do we tweet AT the moment, and not ABOUT the moment?

Do we need people to LIKE our dinner before we even taste it?

As a performance artist, the time-exclusivity of each performance--as bound by the "now"-ness of it--is a dimension that is integral in the piece's whole. When I perform a poem--as oppose to it being an object on the page, a written piece that you consume on your time--the performance is made richer by the fact that it exists on THAT MOMENT alone. The performance maybe the same for the audience who is watching it live and watching it on video via Youtube, but the performance will never be the same for the performer. The moment is the performance, the performance is the moment.

With this "instant sharing" nonsense, people are sharing their shit in real time. Now, everybody's going "look at me, look at me", and they're doing it NOW, and they're doing it easier, and they're doing it everywhere.

There is no process. There is no critical thinking involved in instant sharing. Instant sharing diminishes the experience. Processing the experience allows you to amalgate your learnings, your insights, your point of view, into the actual moment of experience. All of that is compromised through instant sharing, and for what? For the convenience of "getting liked right now".

It's dumb. And I don't trust people who NEED instant sharing in their lives.

FTW - Follow That Whore

"RT for a follow back," said one minor celebrity on Twitter. This was followed by several fans griping about someone being too snobbish to follow back.

Why are people so obsessed with getting Twitter followers? It's dumb. This whole concept of campaigning for followers.

These are the very simply reasons why I WILL NEVER ASK YOU TO FOLLOW ME:

1.) I get nothing out of it. My life is not improved by you following me. I won't wake up tomorrow strangely stronger, able to do more laps than before, simply because I gained 40 followers overnight. I can't go to the store and tell them to give me stuff and charge it on my thousands of followers.

2.) YOU benefit from the content I generate IF you follow ME. So, the way I see it, YOU should ASK ME if you can follow me.Your mind will be blown by the new ideas I'll spit out. On a lackluster day, a random update from me might send you laughing out loud on your dirty floor or spiralling down the staircase of madness that you land on your feet holding a sawed off shotgun against your client's head.

So, there. I'm not gonna ask you to follow me. That's a risk you have to take yourself.

Likeability is Overrated

Facebook, and our eventual dependence on that platform for our communication, has introduced the concept of "LIKE" as a form of feedback, a reply, a reaction, and I think it's not for the best. People nowadays are so concerned with their "likeability" more than ever.

Likeability is overrated. Twilight is likeable. Kimpoy is likeable. Vanilla ice cream is likeable.

Likeable things aren't interesting. There's nothing to love or hate about them. Nothing in them that stirs others into great throes of passion. If you're going to present something to the world and ask others to bother themselves with it, it should either incite in them either a paralyzing sense of disgust or a stupefying sense of the sublime. Greatness isn't likeable.

It would be nice

If you have nothing to do all day but go to the gym and work on your physique. Like, if that's all you ever think about. And you can focus on making yourself look good. And you tire yourself out by lifting weights. It would be really nice.

GREGORY LLAMOSO - Amawhat Now?

What does it say about GREGORY LLAMOSO that when he witnessed an altercation between two women his first instinct is to SHOOT A VIDEO OF IT AND UPLOAD IT ON YOUTUBE?

A couple of months ago, I was in a movie house with my friend Don. The movie was horrible, and it starred John Cusack--those two facts may not be causally related. After the movie, two patrons started screaming at each other. A middle-aged guy called a girl "a bitch" for a.) her phone ringing loudly in the middle of the movie, and b.) for answering the call loudly in the middle of the movie. The girl's date, a young, virile man (the virile part is creative liberty on my part) waited until the movie was over (how considerate, thank you) to confront the middle-aged guy.

When I saw them going for each other, my first instinct is to get myself in between them and stop them from doing anything stupid. I left my friend in his seat, I went between two strangers, AND TRIED TO PACIFY THEM. They still went on having a row, but I know I was able to manage two egos.

What was in it for me? What had I to gain?

One time, I was riding a taxi, and a bus rudely cut ahead of us. The taxi driver blared his horn, the bus driver hit the brakes. The bus driver came out of his bus wielding a wheel wrench. I told the taxi driver to stay put, and don't provoke the other driver further. The bus driver started to hit the taxi's hood with the wrench. That's when I came out of the taxi and talked to the bus driver. I told him to stand back, calm down, and go back to his bus.

Now here's the unexpected thing: as soon as I started pacifying the two drivers, STRANGERS STARTED JOINING MY SIDE. Other people started standing by me in pacifying the two. Whereas we see people in movies egging fighters on, the reality is quite touching. In the end, we managed to stop the two drivers from going for each other's throat.

Now, let's take a look at the AMALAYER situation. We have GREGORY LLAMOSO who witnessed Paula Salvosa having a very public meltdown. What was his first instinct? Did he try to pacify her? Did he even try to defend the lady guard who he felt was being abused?

No.

Like the little rat that he is, Gregory Llamoso HID COMFORTABLY behind a pillar, took a video of the scene DISCREETLY, and then uploaded it on Youtube.

How can anyone see that as ethical?

How is that HIS BUSINESS?

HOW IS THAT THE RIGHT THING TO DO?

Here is the right thing to do: When you are in the position to STOP TWO PEOPLE FROM GOING FOR EACH OTHER'S THROAT, DO SO.

BE A MAN. That's the right thing to do.

Paula Savosa is not a threat to society. She is not a menace that must be exposed. Paula Savosa is just as feisty as most women in my life, and don't you know it, I love them for being feisty. In fact, Paula Savosa has shown MORE BALLS than anyone I know in that video.

The world is not improved on by RATS ARMED WITH VIDEO CAMERAS who thinks they are amateur journalists beyond ethical reproach. The world is changed by people like Paula Savosa who will fight for herself with a passion, in spite of public scrutiny.

So, people, remember to do the right thing, and we'll all be fine.

Unrequired Reading: Diary + Duma Key

Hello. I'm gonna start posting my recommended readings here in my blog. They're not exactly reviews. The idea is if you want to find your way around the vast landscape of printed literature, then I can be your gofer guy.

For no particular reason, my first recommendations are:

Both novels involve artists haunted by their art. I want to juxtapose these two narratives not as contrasting stories, but as complimenting each other. In Palahniuk's DIARY, we explore the sublime effect of art. In King's Duma Key, we look at art as the reflection of reality (and vice versa, perhaps). Both novels can be classified in the horror genre. Not the Hollywood kind, or the Asian "creepy dead girls haunting living girls" sort. These two go for the kind of horror that haunts inside your head.

Monsters

Children went trick-or-treating in our subdivision today. It's an annual tradition in our community to have them celebrate the very American custom of begging strangers for candies. Nothing is more American than middle class Quezon City suburbia, and we certainly did not disappoint. I can't wait for the Thanskgiving parade next month.

This practice of dressing up as monsters once a year has been described in the classic seminal work "Mean Girls" as "that one time of the year where girls get to dress slutty and not get judged for it."

Which got me wondering, "What is this fascination to dressing up as the things we fear the most?"
 
This lead me to asking the question, "what is it that we fear the most, and why?"

I believe that the monsters we fear the most are the creative abstraction of our very human and very personal fears.

I.

Vampires, for example. These damned creatures are damned to spend their lives in darkness, and to walk centuries alone, never making any strong relationships that could outlast mortal lives. Vampires are creatures who are doomed to lose everyone they love, their families, lovers, friends. They are cursed to spend all eternity with other vampires, creatures as equally corrupt as they are. Together, they force themselves to accept clan rules, to embrace loyalties based on necessities.

We fear vampires because we are scared of growing old alone. We are afraid of our own sins, of our own corruption, and that our flaws will condemn us to never make strong bonds with others. We fear that we must live in darkness because others will never accept us. We accept bonds with other equally corrupted being because we fear they are the only ones who will understand. Vampires stand for that fear in all of us of being too different, of being not good enough.

Werewolves, on the other hand, are creatures who lose control of themselves when the moon is full. How Catholic: feeling guilty for acts committed, but would not take responsibility for any of it. Instead, liability falls to the moon, a celestial presence. "It's not me that ravaged your daughter and destroyed everything in my path, it's the moon." Which sounds like an excuse as good as "the Devil made me do it" and "It was God's will that I am running for Governor of your poverty-stricken province." It's never our fault, is it? It's the pressure of having to deliver quantifiable results, it's the traffic, it's the low carb diet. There's always something to blame, there's always the moon.

Ghosts. What could be more fearsome than spirits earthbound for all eternity? Ghosts are mere shadows of their former selves. Beings that are much less of the beings they used to be. Beings that will never be "becomings". The best of their existence is now behind them, and they can never become anything more than what they are: remnants of lives formerly vibrant, formerly real.

Our fear of ghosts is rooted in our fear of being disappointments. We  fear that we have reached our prime, and we are nothing but wraiths desperately clinging on to something we still hold precious. Like a lover clinging to a pillow on an empty bed, like all the medals we polish dirt off from. We are afraid of seeing everyone in our lives move on, to leave us behind forever tied to memories they have forgotten.

Just as similarly lifeless are zombies. In recent years, zombies have grown into fashion. From zombie-themed runs to hit zombie dramas on TV. Zombies are animated corpses driven by their basic needs to consume, consume, consume.

Zombies reflect our fear of losing our identities. Of becoming mindless mobs, acting under an imperative that we have no control over. As much as we fear authoritative governments and dictators, our love for all the civil liberties we enjoy has made us afraid of zombies, creatures tthat have no individual personalities. Each zombie can stand for the other. They are the faceless mob, the unthinking collective, loyal subjects of hunger's dictates.

Yet, the odd thing is, zombie behavior reflects that of consumerist behavior. Anyone who has seen people lined up for the newest Apple product will surely agree with me. In this day and age, corporations are obsessed with SELL, SELL, SELL.

And all you can think of is BUY, BUY, BUY. Buy a condo, an iPhone, a car, a blended coffe-based beverage, a new outfit for Spring. Marketing is nothing more than brainwashing, advertising is just a hip way of calling propaganda without scaring people off. Marketing is crowdcontrol so you zombies can line up nicely for the store opening. Marketing wants you to believe you need these things in your lives, when all you really need is to DO SOMETHING GOOD, and not HAVE SOMETHING GOOD. Stop WANTING TO HAVE, and START WANTING TO DO. Do not measure your existence by the number of things you have, but the number of things you have DONE. Do not be a zombie, GET A LIFE.

II.

Perhaps, we should take a look at kids and their idea of dressing up in costume. While our costumes reflect those that we fear the most, theirs give us an idea of what they want to be the most: princesses and heroes, and robots and knights, soldiers and Iron Man, firemen and ballerinas.

III.

So, why do we dress up as the things we fear the most?

Because in becoming them, we subvert our fears. By embracing them, by becoming them, we become in control. We are in control of our fears of growing old alone, of being villified, of consuming everything without a thought. We feel most alive when we know being dead is just a matter of make-up and old clothes.

Bidder gets to Bed Her - Virginity Sold at Auction

A Brazilian student has auctioned off her virginity, and has sold it for a whopping $780,000. As part of a documentary film (read: Not Porn), a Brazilian student has sold her virginity online to a Japanese man.

Now, although I have sold mine at a far cheaper price (read: a pack of cigarettes), I, for one, do not feel shortchanged. After all, I really needed that smoke.

This does say something about how much men value a woman's virginity to be. Which could have been cheaper had they gone to AyosDito.ph instead.

Apparently, the Brazilian student who auctioned off her virginity plans to use parts of the proceed to building homes for the homeless. In related news: Man who brought a Brazilian student's virginity, now homeless.

Anti Social Media

I. Do we really need to socialize as much as we do?

I feel bombarded by so many offers to go unlimited in texting, calling, and surfing the net. It's great that competition in the industry is strong enough to drive all players into offering better and better promos to consumers.

But, really, do we need to be connected this much? Do I need a limitless amount of SMS in a day to connect with my family and friends? Do I need to keep posting photos of what I had for lunch, or broadcast to the world which milk tea place I go to? How many minutes should I spend on the phone in a day?

II. Face-Hooked?

Facebook has grown from a social networking site to a connectivity platform of its own. With the dynamics of the website ever changing and "ever improving", we have to rethink it as more than a website... it's an enabler of media and communications consumption.

Everything we consume digitally can be found on Facebook: news, videos, photographs of long lost uncles hanging out with his friends from high school, socialist rant from the girl who works at the next table, the engagement announcement of the gay couple you buy ice cream cakes from.

The thing is, the easier we have access to Facebook, the more it drives face-to-face human interaction obsolete.

I hate the fact that I no longer have anything to talk about with some of my friends because we're always on Facebook. At the same time, I hate the fact that I know too much about my friends than I care to. I hate it how I no longer spend hours on the phone with my friend who is also a Doctor Who fan because we've already talked about the most recent episode of Doctor Who on his timeline. I didn't bother to call my friend to greet her on her birthday, because I already posted a photo of a cat wearing a birthday hat on her wall.

We need to disconnect to find ourselves whole. We need to step away from the computer, and spend more time under the sun. Disconnect, and instead, engage.

Engage in experiences together. Learn how to selfishly keep memories to yourself. Make moments more memorable, by not sharing them with strangers. Keep things to yourself, because they mean so much more than a trending topic.

They are our lives, dammit.

Being Negative is Not Productive

Lately, I've been suffering from client-induced stress. In an industry hell bent on SELL, SELL, SELL, there's a big pressure to keep shoving products in people's faces, hoping they'll be too blinded by the sparkle to know better.

The hardest part of my job is dealing with clients who don't know what they want, but know exactly what they don't like. I love working clients who have strong stands on issues, who have pinpointed their directions, who can sum up what they want in one word. I think it's pointless to discuss things with clients who are stuck in middle-management with vague notions of what they want, but are quick to point out when they don't want something. Dammit, spend some quite time in the shower and think about what you want! Don't waste both our time to help you search your black soul for what it is you want.

I am so stressed. Sometimes, I come back to the office scowling, being rude to my office mates, unresponsive. I hate it when I take my negativity against others who have nothing to do with it in the first place.

So, the other day, I came to a decision: Being negative is not productive. I will achieve nothing by letting stupid clients get to the best of me. So I'll soldier on, fake enthusiasm until I can't tell the difference between a plastered on smile and genuine mirth.

Being negative is not productive. Feeling down about the amount of workload that I must deal with to make other people rich won't make the task easier.

Meanwhile, with humor, everything is easier. Finding what's funny in every situation is good training ground for a career in stand up comedy.

So, that's what I'll do. Treat everything as a source of material. Your ridiculousness is my comedy gold.

Advice to a young writer

Write as much as you can in your early twenties. Write as bad as you want. Write about the things you think no one would read, write the way Creative Writing programs told you not to Because soon, the bills will come, and you'll start thinking about loans, and houses, and cars, and kids, and utilities, and you'll be worried about having the time to write, and that what little time you'll manage to squeeze in for your writing, you'll probably spend worrying about writing good enough, great enough, to actually sell enough to pay for the bills.

So, in your early twenties, while you can still live off your parents, DO. While it's still not frowned on to let your moneyed friends take the bill, let them. Because you should be writing, young one. You should be writing, writing, writing. You should be building a bank full of unpublished manuscripts.

I Am a Filthy Bacon Hoe

I've been struggling with obesity for the longest time, and I'm not just talking about fat people getting in my way. I'm talking about being overweight, having a BMI of more than 25. It's an actual condition that incapacitates me from achieving my dreams, and it's a hurdle that I need to overcome to reach happiness.

I've always wanted to go on a diet. To have that discipline of inflicting famine upon myself. It would be wonderful if I have the willpower to stay famished. After all, didn't Steve Jobs himself advised us on the virtue of staying hungry?

Anyway, I've been dreaming of having washboard abs for the longest time now, and I keep making excuses. Like, I'm too tired from work to push myself hard in the gym, blah, blah, blah. But the truth is hard: I'm fat because I'm a voracious eater.

So, since yesterday, I made a pact with myself to watch what I eat. I need to monitor my caloric intake, and be conscious of my consumption.

But this morning, after working out at the gym, I felt a compulsion so strong that it defeated me, and I succumbed to it.

My mind's eye pictured this: BACON, laying on top of SPAM, while CHEESE melted on them. It's the UNHOLY TRINITY OF BREAKFAST, and it was waiting for me a couple of yards away at the nearby Burger King.

BACON. SPAM. CHEESE. For breakfast. How could anything go wrong? It's the perfect way to start the day.

And it means I'll be taking a thousand crunches back from my goal.

It's sad, this feeling of defeat. This dirty feeling of weakness. This shame for submission to a force stronger than my own will. I am conquered by Bacon, owned by Spam, enslaved by Cheese. I am a loyal subject of the Burger King. It makes me feel less of a warrior, and more of a... a filthy bacon whore.

I need professional help from this addiction.

If I Were in Charge

Recently, the great President of our Nation signed a law that would criminalize CYBERSEX in the Philippines.

Meanwhile, the RH Bill, an act which will grant access to safer means of reproduction to the people who need it the most but couldn't afford to, is still being filibustered mercilessly in the august halls of our senate.

I find this ridiculous. First, not only are we telling people that the government will not provide for them access to birth control methods, we're also telling them it's illegal for them to engage in A VIRTUAL SEXUAL ACT.

Is there a breeding program in place where our economic game plan is to reproduce as much as we can so we can export more laborers out of the country? Are we capitalizing on a diaspora so systematic that it will improve our economic rating? If so, then we are a nation run by geniuses. Otherwise, let me slap you with a bit of reality: We have too many mouths to feed, and too little money going around to buy enough food. The problem is as simple as that.

Population density is not the issue here. Some people argue that overpopulation is not the problem, but that too many people are crowding in too small a space to support them. The problem is that there's too little opportunity outside of Manila for families to make a living, YET THEY CONTINUE TO BUILD FAMILIES.

For argument's sake, the best solution to this is to EXPAND THE CENTER. Create a STRONG AND WILLFUL Metro Manila Development BOARD-- a body not just with police powers, but the responsibility to develop the center through strategic governance (a blueprint that Mayors will adhere to; i.e. a law that criminalizes taking PERSONAL CREDIT for GOVERNMENT FUNDED PROJECTS) is the first step. With a strong EXECUTIVE OFFICE in charge of running Metro Manila, we then develop nearby municipalities to create a MUCH LARGER CENTER OF COMMERCE, AND INDUSTRY. We need a CENTER big enough to sustain the population we already have, AND TO ACCOMMODATE THE POPULATION GROWTH FOR THE UPCOMING YEARS.

Crucial to this 'expanded center' is an EFFICIENT TRANSPORT SYSTEM. Without an efficient transport system, the expanded center will only rot from the fringes. Slowly, those at the edge will get cut off. We need more trains, and a BUS SYSTEM THAT WORKS. We need to make the very hard decision of letting the Jeepneys go. It's time we free the major thorough fares from these outdated, slow-moving tin cans. Clean up the bus system so that they don't race along the highways, so that the safety of pedestrians is assured. We need to have an efficient transport system that would help a CREATIVE DIRECTOR FROM RIZAL commute to work in MAKATI in less than an hour, for a SMALL BUSINESS OWNER IN PARANAQUE to make a delivery of cupcakes in TONDO, for a UNIVERSITY STUDENT IN MALABON to reach school in DILIMAN without the travel taking too much of his energy.

Whatever law our statesmen will promulgate to enact these changes is welcome. The first step they're taking is the RH BILL. It's good, it's much needed, but sadly, its critics are correct in one thing (and ONLY IN THIS ONE THING) that the RH BILL IS NOT A SOLUTION. It's a remedy to one of the issues, but it's no miracle cure.

Totally unnecessary is this law that our great President has just wasted our time on. Criminalizing CYBERSEX? Really?

1.) What business is it of the STATE if its citizen engages in virtual sex? Should we really SPEND OUR RESOURCES on the prevention of its commission?

2.) How can we define CYBERSEX? Let's say, I went online, and engaged in publicly broadcasting myself. One of my viewers started masturbating while I talk to the camera about how my day went. Will I be RESPONSIBLE for the act then? What if I like masturbating to cartoon dinosaurs on Youtube? What if TWO LAWFULLY WEDDED INDIVIDUALS engage in cybersex as a HEALTHY WAY to create a time of intimacy while one of them works in Dubai while the other stays in the Philippines to take care of their children? What if we are talking about TWO MALES IN A HEALTHY, MONOGAMOUS RELATIONSHIP THAT HAS LASTED FOR 20 YEARS? What then, do we criminalize them too?

More SINISTER is the "cyberlibel" clause. IT IS THE VERY DEFINITION OF THE STATE OPPRESSING THE PEOPLE'S FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION. This couldn't have come at a much shadier time than RIGHT AFTER SENATOR SOTTO'S CLAIM OF BEING CYBERBULLIED.

Basically, THE STATE IS TELLING US "You can't criticize the government unless you have THE COURT TO PROVE YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO." The STATE doesn't want you to call Senator Sotto "stupid" unless you can drag experts in court to testify in support of your claim: psychologists who have tested him, his former teachers, etc. The very definition of "stupid" will be questioned, it will be contextualized.

THE STATE is telling us "You cannot accuse US of enacting legislation that grant favors to foreign investors over local ventures" unless you can prove in court that it is granting concessions to Malaysian mining companies to rape our natural resources and displace indigenous people "in co-operation with Filipinos".

THE STATE wants you to STOP FROWNING ON BLAIR CARABUENA'S BEHAVIOR, STOP RALLYING FOR SM TO STOP PAVING OUR RAINFORESTS, STOP DEMANDING FOR YOUR RIGHTS ONLINE, STOP SPREADING INFORMATION THAT OTHERS NEED.

With ONE SINGLE SIGNATURE, President Aquino has UNDONE ALL THE GREAT THINGS WE HAVE ACCOMPLISHED WITH SOCIAL MEDIA.

The Secret to Happiness

The secret to happiness is simple: you will be happy only as much as you want others to be happy. In finding happiness for others, so do you appreciate your life.What you have now, and what you can have. Forget what you want to have, and instead think of what you may have if you set your eyes on it, and works toward attaining it.

The most important lesson here is this: that you will be always be as miserable as you want others to be miserable. The more you wish for unhappiness to come to others, the more unhappy you will be. This isn't some cosmic shit, but basic cause-and-effect. Think about it: You can NOT cause another person to be unhappy. You may be the cause of MISFORTUNE for others, you may cause them harm. But you have NO CONTROL to how they will feel about it. Most probably, they will carry on with grace and unswerving faith and resilience. That will only frustrate you even more. In wishing misery for others, you only set out to disappoint yourself.

Eff Queue

I was at the bank last Saturday to claim my replacement ATM card for the one I lost. As it was the weekend, the queue at the bank was kilometric. No kidding. It snaked around inside the bank, and I waited for a total of an hour and a half.

Anyway, there was this woman ahead of me in the queue. After several minutes, she recognized someone ahead of us in the queue. She immediately left her spot in the queue and joined her friend, where they chatted merrily until she has taken the spot right behind her friend, thereby CUTTING IN LINE BY SEVERAL PEOPLE.

Now, as the woman was ahead of me, it didn't really affect my position in the queue. However, I think it's really effed up when people do that.

Dear Rude Woman Who Doesn't Know How to Fall In Line,

We're all waiting for our turn here. You can't just jump several people ahead of you because you saw someone you know. You're not even that intimate with that person, as your body language show, the way you try to fill in the gaps between your conversation with awkward laughter and small talks.

And IF your conversation with your friend is so damn important, your friend should JUMP BACK to your spot and let the people behind your friend JUMP AHEAD. That way, you didn't inconvenience anyone. And IF you two are really tight like that, it wouldn't be much of a bother if she did jump back to your spot, behind her in the line.

What you did is inconsiderate.

And yeah, I'm not singling you out. I'm talking to ALL OF THE PEOPLE WHO EVER DID THAT MANEOUVER. Totally not cool, guys.

Trust Issues

I'm finding it hard to tell when people are being nice to me if it's because they're really good, nice people or if it's because I'm very good looking.

Like when random strangers smile at me when I walk down the street, I get paranoid. Are they trying to hook up, or do they really appreciate the weather that much? Especially when it's raining, and people ordinarily have no reason to smile at strangers, I suspect them.

It's much easier when I was just plain, borderline genius. Then, everyone was mean to me. Because I'm pretty smart, and it really shows. I think people naturally distrust smart people. I mean, look at the people we've voted into the legislative. The elected local government of Quezon City IS proof of this theory.

Now that I'm hot, more and more people are starting to care about my day. It's so weird. I'll be all naked in the sauna, and strangers will smile at me, and I don't know what to do. The polite thing is to smile back, yes, but it's like when you're in a safari and the panther is smiling at you, I think you shouldn't bare your teeth back at it because it might get provoked.

So, this is what I have to deal with now. Being unbelievably smart, and incredibly gorgeous. FML.

Every Time is Me Time

I've been single for the longest time. I'd like to think I'm single by choice, but I'm starting to suspect I'm single by karma. Or by curse.

On the upside, one thing I've learned in my long years of blessed singlehood, is that I cann basically do whatever I like without considering another person's opinion. I mean, really, why would I commit to someone who would keep asking me where I'm going and what time I'll be going home. I didn't file for emancipation as a minor for nothing.

Consider this: In the past 48 hours, I have done everything I needed to do this weekend. I went to Mezza Norte with my mates from the office, trained for Mixed Martial Arts with my awesome coach Mel, went to the bank, saw Dark Knight, then did cardio training, and now I'm working on my next novel before I head off to see my friend's play.

No hassle. No laborious explanation, no six degrees. What's not to love?

Fatal Distraction

I realized today that I'll never be as good a fighter as I want to be. I'm too distracted. I lose focus easily.

For the longest time, I know that my problem is being too easily distracted. I find it hard to finish my writing because I get distracted easily, I lose focus easily. Even at work, it's a struggle for me to sit down and finish one powerpoint presentation for a long period of time. I need to take constant walking breaks, or do a totally unrelated activity.

I suspect I may have ADHD. I know it's a treatable condition, and it must be treated if it gets to affect one's functionality.

But I don't want to. See, despite my short attention span affecting my life as a drawback, it has also been easily mistaken by people as my brilliance. When it comes to coming up with the wildest ideas for stories and concepts, my short attention span made it possible for me to make connections between totally disconnected ideas and concepts.

So, there.That's today's daily dillemma. How's yours?

Good to be Rude?

OK, help me out here.

There's this old dude in our gym who picks the scabs on his feet. I'm not talking about blistered feet here, because obviously, he's not athletic enough to earn himself blisters. I'm talking about GROSS open, festering sores.

Here's what he does every fucking time. He sits on the wooden bench, raises one foot, picks on the scabs, flicks the scabs on the floor, then pours alcohol all over his festering sores. Then, he moves on to the next foot.

It's so disturbing to see him do it in such a public place as the men's locker room. He's old, like late forties old. As much as I would like to treat the elderly with respect, I feel offended by his total disregard for other people's hygiene.

My question is this: Is it rude to confront him and make him stop? I'm really tempted to issue a cease and desist order, along the lines of "Hi, excuse me, but do you mind NOT doing that here? You're spreading the contagion that has infected your leper feet. Please stop leaving the rotten pieces of yourself all over the place."

I really feel like I'm on the right side here, but I don't want to come out like the bad guy. He's really gross. What should I do?

Big Brother is Watching. Should we?

I.

In Orwell's 1984, we are warned of a future where people are constantly exposed to the scrutiny of the ever watchful Big Brother, a system so repressive and oppressive that the mere thought against it is a crime.

For almost a decade now, the term "Big Brother" has entered pop culture as a hit reality TV franchise known all over the world for its hyper-realistic presentation of human drama. The premise is loosely based on Orwell's dystopian future. Strangers are forced to co-habit a common space for a period of time under the watchful eye of Big Brother. Whoever survives this living condition the longest wins the prize.

What was once a cautionary tale of excessive governance has now entered our imagination as a form of entertainment. We no longer fear "Big Brother"; in fact, we have become part of the system, our TV sets glued to Big Brother's eye, become one with Big Brother, ever watchful, ever critical, ever seeing.

Big Brother is watching. We are watching. We are Big Brother.

II.

Quite recently, the new season of a Big Brother spin-off has introduced us to a new concept: "PBB Teen". Stemming from the show "PBB Teens", to be a "PBB Teen" is widely understood as to be an immature person who makes juvenile decisions and mostly makes exaggerated reactions to the simplest problems. It can also mean someone who falls irrevocably in love, depending on context. A "PBB Teen", basically, is someone that even teenagers--in their immaturity-- look down on as an embarrassment to their generation.

In short, "A Pinoy Big Brother Teen" is someone who probably has no idea of how "Big Brother" is a reference to Orwellian dystopia.

From a strong criticism of the government overextending its will and domain, "Big Brother" in its Philippine context has become its polar opposite: a launching pad for careers of people who really, really, really want to be watched all the time. In an ironic turn of events, Orwell's warning against being too closely watched has become an opportunity to be ever present in the public's eye.

"Big Brother" is no longer a warning; "Big Brother" is now an invitation. An invitation to live your life under the ever watchful eye of the people, to subject your life to public scrutiny, to surrender your privacy and become the state's property.

Oh, how our values have changed. Where once we used to value our individuality, our right to think freely and stand up for our beliefs, we now value being used as a commodity.

III.

Once, we had an aquarium in our home. We filled it with goldfishes. Fishes that did nothing but swam all day, lay eggs, eat, shit, and die. They lived their existence solely to entertain the household.

I guess some people would do anything for the attention. Even live in a fishbowl.

Not surprisingly, we have turned our world into one big fishbowl. You think tweeting about your lunch, or posting a Facebook status about your weekend plans mean nothing. But the truth is, every single thing we share on social media is being monitored by brands. Analytic tools are so powerful that geo-tagging is now an inherent features in apps. When you Tweetpic a photo of your lunch, this is most of the information you make public: the model of the phone you are using, the location where the photo was sent from, the time, the date, the food item, the name of the restaurant, your mobile network provider, etc. How can this information be used against you? By providing marketers this information, you grant them data on how to further control your thought process. The more information is being sent by people "digitally socializing", the more data we can use to effectively target you. Next time we want you to buy baked fish, we'll know where to place the ads, we'll know what time to blast you with the message, we know which network to tap to reach you, we'll know where you usually eat your lunch.

Think about it. Big Brother is still watching. And we're letting him.

Metered Preacher Man

"Men growing their hair long is a SIN. It's an offense against God," the cab driver said. To prove his point, he referenced the Bible-- written thousands of years ago, by men who claimed to hear a voice in their heads telling them to (a) kill their sons, (b) stone their wives for the slightest rumor of infidelity, and (c) eating oysters earns you a special place in Hell.

I was on my way to Trinoma, and it really wasn't in my schedule to ride a cab with a frustrated preacher. The moment I sat my cute, bubble butt on the seat, he asked: "Do you have a Bible at home?" I should have remembered my lessons well: Never go with an Evangelist to a second location. Yet, the adventurous side of me--that part of the human brain we have inherited from our crocodile ancestors-- compelled me to go along for the ride, and see where it would lead. I felt it would make a good character study--a lonely, disgraced preacher who has turned to driving cabs for a living, and kills passengers for fun. "Why, yes. We do. I keep one close to my bed, actually," I lied.

Back to men growing their hair long. It was the most ridiculous thing he said so far that night. He went on against tattoos, people who don't pray, and women who dress up in men's clothing. I felt trapped. If I wasn't so worried about my shirt, I would have kicked the door open, and rolled out of the running taxi. He was practically against everything: Muslims, gay men, having impure thoughts. But I had to draw the line somewhere, and it was with men growing their hair long.

"Jesus had long hair," I told him.

"What? Of course not," he said, adamant.

"Yes, he did. Look at all the crucifixes. Beside, there was no barbers yet at that time," I informed him confidently.

He was silent. Deep in his evangelical thoughts. Finally, we reached my destination. I reached for money from my bag, and handed him the fare, adding a little extra because I appreciate passion in people, even when it's misplaced and misguided.

"Jesus had short hair," he couldn't resist saying right before I stepped out of his cab. "I saw a movie once where he had short hair."

All is as it should be.

It's a nice thought. I saw it tattooed on someone's wrist. I was also trying to get a glimpse of what was written on his chest, but it would be highly appropriate, seeing that we were both at work on a convention for doctors.

It's a comforting thought. All is as it should be. It's the one lesson I'm clinging on to right now. It's not enough to accept that "shit happens"; believing that shit happens for a reason, so it can teach you a lesson, free you of something, or there's a yet unseen fortuitous consequence of it, well, ain't that bliss? Every heartbreak you've ever experienced, every disappointment you've ever faced, every thing is a part of what would ultimately make you a better version of you living a better version of your life right now.

When our plans fail, believe in the mantra: All is as it should be. We won't always get what we want, but we'll always get what we need to get. We hope for gold, but we are handed coals. Instead of getting disappointed or heartbroken, think: even gold yields to coals.

At Chili's Greenbelt

Met up with the NJDC last night. We're starting to feel more and more like a multi-cam sitcom barkada, getting the same booth every week, with the blocking geared at one camera. We all got Santa Fe steaks, because Cam-b wanted one. We downed two pitchers of much deserved strawberry mango margarita, and played Pinoy Henyo for an hour or so. It was the nerdiest game ever played of Pinoy Henyo, what with several contentions and qualified yeses, and noes. Also, learned something new about Cessna planes. Which, along with my new knowledge of obstetrics and pediatrics nutrition, would come pretty helpful, if ever I find myself pregnant on a private plane.

These are the photos.

On Orestes Dizon

I've been stuck for the longest time on my current writing project. It's the third volume in my series of young adult novels. Years has passed in real time since the first book was published, but in the timeline of the narrative, it has only been a matter of weeks.

Since I started writing the series, I've got lots of feedback from readers. Most of them positive, some not quite so. Which is just as well.

Anyway, clearly one of the crowd favorites is Orestes Dizon. Orestes Dizon is the son of a senator, and he's gay. He's in the closet because of his particular position among his peers, and he's finding it harder and harder to deal with dealing with public perception and his personal feelings.

What I find problematic about his character is that I'm really not trying to say anything about any LGBT issue. I don't want his story to be an LGBT crusade for acceptance or for gay marriages or whatever. I just want a character torn between his public persona and his private life.

Anyway, one time, I was browsing through the internet, and I saw a meme showing Disney princesses as hipsters. This led me to a link that shows Disney princes as sexy beefcakes (naked, save for the occasional loincloth).

Which got me into thinking, "Hey, the next Disney prince should be gay."

Which I think is a brilliant inspiration for Orestes Dizon.

At the heart of my narrative, Orestes Dizon IS a Disney princess/prince. He's an idealized / idolized person, he lives in his own fairy tale.

Despite JC Penney's initiative to redefine the family, I don't think Disney will be coming up with its own gay Disney prince soon. So, I humbly take on this challenge.

What if the next Disney prince is gay?

I suppose, we'll all have to wait until I'm done writing "DIRT" to find out.

BAYO What's Your Mix Campaign - Alternative Studies

Dear Bayo,

You've had had quite a week. You were expecting excitement for a new campaign, but suffered the backlash of a poorly executed idea instead. There's a chain of blame you can trace, perhaps, pointing a finger at the creative team, another to your own marketing team, but what's the point? There was a series of bad decisions, and what was a campaignable idea was proven to be, yes, campaignable, but only to ridicule itself.

I do not offer more ridicule. You have gone viral. Everyone and their followers are creating mockeries of your "What's Your Mix?" ads. I will not shoot at the low hanging fruit, and glorify myself with easy jokes.

Instead, I'll offer you free professional consult. I love a good challenge. And what's great about this exercise is that neither of us loses anything.

Let's review the campaign, and look at ways we could have done it differently.

The Challenge: Invigorate the brand by daring the consumers to "mix and match" their look. As this is a bold step from traditional notions of "building an ensemble", the challenge is to introduce the idea that "creating your own look IS what makes your outfit fashionable."

INSIGHT: WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN UNIQUE MIXES.

Where You Went Wrong: You interpeted "unique mix" as something genetic and inherent. You positioned models with mixed lineages as "beautiful" and "world class".

THE CRITICAL FLAW: UNLIKE CREATING AN ENSEMBLE,  one CANNOT CHOOSE THEIR MIX.

THE SOLUTION: UNIQUE MIX = The sum total of characteristis and experience that each individual has.

THE EXECUTION YOU SHOULD HAVE GONE FOR:

Juxtaposing the images of "eclectic" ensemble with "character" models, we create "personalities" which the consumers can relate to.

Note: All images herein are used to demonstrate "peg looks". I do not own these images, and I am not using them to promote the brand "Bayo".

[Study 1]

Copy: "50% Haute, 50% HOT"

[Study 2]

Copy: "Full-time Columnist. Part-time Rockstar. Oft-times Inner Child."

CONCLUSION: The critical flaw in the execution is that you defined and prescribed the mix, positioned it aspirationally, without awareness that the consumer cannot control the "mix" as you have defined it (genetically). As an aspiration, one cannot aim to achieve a mix that is part-Filipino, part-something else. However, when you LET THE CONSUMERS DEFINE what their mix is, you then engage the brand into a conversation with your market. You are now asking them to be bold and inventive in DEFINING THEMSELVES BY MIXING AND MATCHING THEIR LOOKS USING YOUR PIECES.

You're welcome.

New Roads to Creativity

I was whining to my friend how I'm finding it exceptionally difficult to do any writing lately, and said something I find truly fascinating.

He said I may have outgrown my writing methods.

This is interesting for me to hear because it may be true. I have been doing the same process since I started, and only because it's a process that works. It's a tried and tested formula. However, I failed to take into account my own rate of maturity. That as years go by, I grow. I acquire new sensibilities, I learn new tricks.

What my friend said is worth exploring. Perhaps it's time for me to find other ways to reach my point of creativity. Maybe I'm growing bored with how I usually approach a problem, and my attacks have been monotonous, if not predictable.

With that thought, I'll go to sleep tonight. Good night, everyone.

Unrequired Readings and Necessary Fictions

                A couple of news stories shocked me recently. As someone who always end up drunk first in every game of I’ve-Never, it takes quite a lot to shock me. The two news stories that did were a.) the video of two teenagers brutally slaying a kindly doctor in his own home, and b.) the Bible-toting nice young man from Miami who was found growling in the streets, naked, and eating a hobo’s face off.

                There’s a lot to be said about these horror, and a lot to be asked. It is when we are confronted by these harsh realities do we confront the dark side of our humanity: this is what we are capable of.

                We are capable of generosity: a doctor—well respected and loved in his community—picks up two teenagers he met on Facebook, and gave them shelter for the night.

                We are capable of love: a young man from Miami, known to carry a Bible around, called his girl friend to let her know how much he loves her, shortly before stepping out to go to a party.

                So, how did we make the jump from love and generosity to brutal, shameless slaughter? I wish we know the answer to that one, but we can guess based on what we do know.

                What we know so far: right before slaughtering their host, the two teenage boys who the doctor picked up set-up his phone to take a video recording of their planned slaying. They promptly slaughtered him amidst his pleas to be spared. How anyone could stand to execute man while he pleads for his life is beyond me. The doctor was stabbed, repeatedly. Dragged across the floor, and bled in his own bathroom. One of his killer then went back to the camera, showcased his handiwork—by then, a lifeless sack of flesh and blood—and then DARED to put his stamp on it by focusing the camera on his own face. This killer, not even a man yet, took the life of another, and felt pride.

                What we know so far: a naked man was found devouring a homeless man’s face off. He was growling, primal and carnivorous. The police officers who responded had to shoot him down as a matter of necessity. Investigators suspect he was under the influence of “bath salts”, a dangerous compound known to cause sensations of high temperature (compelling the man, perhaps, to take his clothes off?) and hallucinations—oh, that tricky domain of the subconscious to break down reality in its entirety and replace it with its own follies.

                And with what we know, we must ask: what do we learn from these? Other than losing our faith in humanity, what have these incidents taught us?

                No doubt, guilty parties must pay the price of their crimes. There are consequences. It is in the upholding of the laws that govern the land do we feel safe and protected as a society. Murderous sociopaths and drug pushers must be punished. It is only when we can see these monsters behind bars can we comfortably tuck ourselves in at night.

                Yet, these monsters aren’t all the monsters there are in the world. We may put these ones behind bars, but there are monsters under the bed, there are monsters we share our beds with. The Canadian Psycho—the former pornstar who chopped a Chinese student and mailed the pieces, bit by bit—was said to be “in a relationship” with his victim. Every day, the local tabloids are replete with headlines of spouses slaughtering spouses, of women battered, of daughters raped. Recently, a 5-year old boy was rescued from a Satanic ritual involving his own parents gouging out his eyes with a spoon. On TV tonight, a mother holds her own daughter’s arms as her partner rapes her.

                The monsters we are most afraid of maybe the same people we most love.

                As a poet and novelist, it makes me question my role in a society on the brink of a breakdown. In our darkest hours, what use have we of fiction and poems? Indeed, why do we tell our children fairy tales, and not the truth about how dangerous the world really is?

                I believe in fairy tales. I have never been a fan of the ‘ever after’ part (I have always been afraid of commitments, even as a child, and ‘ever after’ sounds too long a time to commit to), but I love the part where the wolf is defeated by his own pride, or the wicked witch is destroyed by her own vanity. Of all the Disney movies, I love Alladin the most. There is something about a street rat socially climbing his way to the sultanate that appealed to me in my formative years.

                We tell fairy tales not because they are heart warming tales of teapots bursting into song, and twittering birds producing haute couture from scratch. We tell fairy tales because we don’t want our kids to pet the big, bad wolf. There are big, bad wolves, some of them will knock on our doors, and just like the three little pigs, it is our responsibility to ourselves TO REFUSE THEM ENTRY.

                We are duty bound to protect ourselves, our properties, our loved ones against monsters. If a friendly stranger offers us apples in a party, we must not take it, it may be laced with bath salts. We must not welcome wolves inside our homes, especially if we’re a kindly, old grandmother and our Little Red Riding Hood’s not coming to visit till the weekend.

               

                We must not trade our own voice just so we can stand alongside princes and their courts.

                We must not wish to be real boys when we are perfectly crafted the way we are. Don't enter houses, especially when they're made of gingerbread.

           And, if we take a quick survey of the fairy tales we tell in the Philippines, the most dangerous thing you should avoid doing is to fall in love. How many rivers, fruits, waterfalls, hills, caves, mountains, and trees have been created out of lovers foiled? A chopped hand, a drowned maiden, a lady left by her betrothed, a man betrayed. These are the stuff our fairy tales are made of. We formed the islands out of the carcasses of our fallen lovers. The first rain of summer. A creeping vine. The pineapple. The tarsier. The stars we have pounded away. The flower that spoke of our guilt. These are the things we have turned those we love into.

                And so: the fiction we tell ourselves is necessary. They may be stories we make up, but we made them up to bear truths: truths about humanity, truths about the world, truths that would horrify us otherwise and distract us from recognizing them. Stories don’t have to be true to be truthful.

                So I take upon this unlikely role of storyteller. In times when the most important thing to have is not a sharp mind, but a tablet that mimics human thinking... and that the highest earning professional of today is a lawmaking boxer who preaches about hate while promoting the use of foreign brands, I refuse to give up my faith in that one, undefeatable truth: In stories, salvation.  

                I am a storyteller. I bear the unfortunate burden of saving this world, one word at a time.

Not Dating D.

I made a pledge to NOT DATE anyone until I'm done with my thesis, or I'll have to sponsor a child through world vision. My friend Miriam suspected it's a great motivation for me to come up with a thesis overnight.

So, I went out last Wednesday with my friend D. It's not a date, since it's D, and I'm not dating D. We went to see the movie "Raven", and NEVERMORE would I watch it again. It's the worse movie I've seen this year, and I've seen Shotgun Preacher. This is John Cusack's worse performance ever.

The best part of the movie happened AFTER THE MOVIE, when the lights turned on, and people started exiting.

Backtrack: In the middle of the movie, someone's phone rang loudly. It was a woman's phone, and her ringtone was something loud and rocking. Like a hardcore, deathmetal kind of rock. It rang for quite some time as she searched her bag for it.

While she was looking for her ringing phone, the man sitting behind us yelled "ASSHOLE!"

The woman with the ringing phone yelled something back, which prompted the guy sitting behind me to keep yelling "Bitch! Asshole!"

This happened in Glorietta, which should give you an idea of what kind of people they have over there.

Anyway, after the movie, the woman with the ringing phone's boyfriend stood up, and confronted the jerk. Well, they're both jerks, but I think the bigger jerk was the guy sitting behind me.

It was all so dramatic. They were yelling at each other, and they were throwing punches.

AND I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF IT!

I was trying to stop them. I was grabbing them by their arms, telling them to cool down, stop it.

My friend D pulled me back. "Let's go!"

"Why? I'm trying to stop a fight," I answered.

"Then why are you SMILING?"

No Judgment Dinner Club

This is the NJDC. That's me, Jordan, Cam-B, and Cielly. We are the No Judgment Dinner Club. Because we dine with no judgment. Which I still insist should go both ways: there should be no judgment for the guy who stays away from the rice because he's on a strict high protein low carb diet. But apparently, that's not on the agenda.

Last Friday, it was Dampa in Libis again. We were deciding on whether Dampa or someplace in Makati, and Dampa won by luck of the draw. Seriously. Cam-b tore up little pieces of paper, and drew the name of the place.

I must admit, the buttered shrimp this time around is much tastier. Last time we were there, they came out bland and watery. The tempura was amazing as well. Damn, just remembering those make me hungry now.

Also, we go way back. Eating has always been our thing.

That's us, eating out in Binondo.

Coconut News Ngayon 2012

Meet up with my friends from grade school. I was an hour late, and in my defense, I really was working on something very important at the office. Anyway, we had dinner at the Mango Tree in Bonifacio High Street, then I brought them to one of our events, which was happening a couple of steps away, literally.

You might recognize Sanidine from the series of adverts she did for Neozep. You might recognize Daisy from the series of Youtube videos I posted of her throwing up on the street. You might recognize me as the guy who almost starred in Magic Mike, had Channing Tatum not slept his way to the project.

But, can you recognize these kids?

Yeah, that's the three of us back in grade school. We were doing a spoof news report for class. We wrote the jokes ourselves, and starred in our own sketches.

As you can see, there is a bit of a difference in how I look like then and how I look like now.

No wonder one of the girls from our batch didn't know who I was.

The girl on the right is Ian. She was the prettiest girl in school back when we were in 5th grade.

She happen to be at the same restaurant that night.

"OMG, you really should go and say HI to her, Malvar!" Daisy said, sounding like she would pee her pants anytime if I don't oblige.

"YES! You absolutely must!" added Sanidine. Apparently, in the hour that they were waiting for me to arrive, they've caught up with Ian over appetizers.

So, bullied by two lovely ladies in plunging dresses, I approached Ian--who, it bears repeating, was the prettiest girl in school when we were little.

"Hi!" I said. I like using hi as an opening. You can never go wrong with a simple opening.

"Yes?" she said.

"Ian! It's me! Malvar!"

"Oh..." she said. "And where do know each other...?"

And then it hit me. I was never in the same class with this girl. I transferred to our school in FIFTH GRADE, and she was gone after the SIXTH. And we never shared even ONE SUBJECT.

And she was the prettiest girl in school, while I looked like the boy who died of pneumonia and came back thanks to science.

"Uhm." I hate saying uhm. It's a weak closing. "We were... I mean... you were in school and I was there and... never mind."

I ran back inside the restaurant and stuffed my face with Thai food.

"Oh, what did she say? She's so nice, isn't she?" asked Daisy.

"She doesn't know who I was," I mumbled, in between sips of Tom Yum.

"Well, it's been years, you changed a lot..." said Sanidine.

"No," I told them. "She has no idea who I am!"

"That's impossible," said Daisy. "You're..."

"Oh my god," they chorused. Finally, they realized how insignificant I was in grade school.

"It's so embarassing!" I said. "She looked scared. I scared her! I scared Ian. Great job, guys."

We burst out laughing.

Stripped

My friend, the award winning Karl Castro, went to Hong Kong for an art thing, and came back with a gift for me. It's a new iPhone case, the design of which is Nyoman Masriadi's Sudah biasa di telanjangi, which translates to English as either "Thick Skinned" or "Used to Being Stripped".

I suspect the Filipino translation is closer to the intent: "Walang Hiya".

It depicts a very muscular brown man in handcufffs. He has a floral panty down to his ankles. It is the highest priced painting in the region, by the way.

My friend thinks this is the perfect image for me to carry around.

Sleep Fighter

 My brother Joboy is a hyperactive kid who we can barely made to stand still to tie his shoelaces. He is constantly in motion, running around, tinkering with things. Some kids are so restless that watching them sleep brings a moment of bliss to their parents. Kids so hyperactive that you cherish those short moments when they're unconscious and they resemble angels.

He is not one of those kids. What Joboy is, is a sleep fighter.

Every night, as soon as he enters a state of REM, my brother gets into fights. He would twitch, kick savagely, pull at whatever he could grasp, twist. Sleeping beside him has a high risk off getting a karate chop in the neck.

I don't know what wonderfully dark labyrinths he enters when he sleeps, but I am jealous. It's like he's always on adventures, and he's always fighting one monster after another. I wonder how many damsels and villages he has saved in his subconscious.

It sounds like the premise of an awesome comedy-martial arts movie. "Sleep Fighter Kid". Where a puny kid is bullied, until he learns to unlock the ancient fighting techniques passed on to him by his forefathers. So he sleeps to unleash the fighter inside his subconscious. Only when he has lost all consciousness does his body remembers how to fight, to strike without fear, to negotiate with the laws of physics and use his body to devastating results. This would entail humorous scenes of getting into fights, and getting beaten, and then getting knocked down unconscious, only to rise back quickly as a much vicious fighter. The challenge is how to get him to sleep on time.

Which has always been the struggle with Joboy in the first place.

Muay Tired

Trained for Muay Thai this morning with Coach Mel at Extreme. It felt awesome. I'm really into it, and I really am training seriously. Then, I went to the mall to see my friend the National Book Award and Adobo Design Award (among many) winning Karl Castro to buy some wraps and training shorts.

I went home, and fell asleep. Literally, I collapsed on my bed. I woke up in the middle of the night and my whole body is aching. This has got to be the most exhausted I've been in years.

I think I'll limit my training to twice a week, though. I don't think I can survive more than that.

Poem - The Talk

I would enjoy breaking up with you,
Softly focusing on background images
As you sit me down to talk,
Because we need to talk, it's just a talk,
Dreading what I already know you would say,
That it's not me but you,

I would enjoy that,
I would stretch time, and pay more attention
To how we fidget and smile,
with all the fight gone now,
Nothing but the clean up now,
So we talk, you talk, I listen, mostly,


I want that
I want that for us,
Not text messages coming farther in between,
Because I'd rather have the talk, than no talk at all
I earned that, we deserve one

I'd rather we throw things in the air to watch them break
And call each other names we dared use only in bed,
And in a much different, more appreciative context,

Not the growing silence of things we can't say,
And things we've already said and,
Forgetting me at times more frequently.

I would fight for you, and beg you back
Had I known I was breaking your heart.

Life is Unfair

Life is unfair.

God created Francisco Lachowski and Marlon Teixeira to make the rest of humanity feel our flaws, and appreciate His grandeur. Like why He created the Grand Canyon and the stars and The Himalayas and rainbows, so that we can marvel at their beauty and realize that for this design to have been actualized, there must be an Consciousness, a Being, so magnificently intelligent that perfection is attained.

I am short. It's a combination of my parents' bad genes, and the fact that they had me when they were so young, they couldn't afford to feed me the nutrients I need to grow properly.

Why, God, why wasn't I born tall, lanky, handsome, intelligent, and filthy rich? I could definitely be more productive if my energy is being used up by my insecurities. I'm short, dirt poor, of average physical appeal, and of modest intelligence. Why can't I be Francisco Lachowski? It's not fair. I'll trade anything for six more inches vertically. And a boatload of cash. Coz then, I'll have enough going for me that I can afford a decent nose job and some jaw enhancement.

I am so insecure.

Random nothing

Working on a presentation for work even on the weekends, so, to keep my sanity, I took a breather to take this random photo. Haha.

Hi, everyone! How's your Saturday so far?

Not Done at All

There's a snag in my weight loss program. I'm at the point where I'm ready to commit to cutting down my carbs intake, so I can consume more protein for muscle building and repair.

But I have a day job, and the food place where people go to for lunch is a carinderia that doesn't really cater to my needs. It's pretty OK for a carinderia, the food's OK, there's enough choices everyday. But they're mostly fried, or sauced up that they can only be eaten with lots of rice.

So, I'm forced to look for other places to eat. Like this inasal place nearby. Roast chicken is good, it's high in protein. It's also expensive to keep eating roast chicken for lunch. The other options for lunch are fast food (I work near Morato), which would hurt my budget and my diet plans WORSE.

Men's Health and other fitness experts recommend the same thing: For anyone dedicated enough to commit to a strict high protein low carbs diet, LEARN TO COOK.

My friend Neil cooks his own food, and that's why he looks like the Baby Hulk (which sounds like an amazing idea for a Marvel franchise). He steams chicken breasts everyday, seasoned with pepper and salt, and eaten with steamed camote (sweet potatoes).

Confession time. I know I may come off as perfect, and what with me being able to do basically everything, but I am not perfect. I can't cook.

Technically, I can learn to cook. There was a time when I saw myself experimenting in the kitchen, and by that, I don't mean sexually, with a stranger on the kitchen floor, but actually whipping up a dish.

But, really. I have a day job, I go to the gym, I'm working on two novels simultaneously, and I do my own laundry. I can't, by any sane amount of reason, squeeze in an extra hour in my life to prepare my own food. I can't invest in a steamer, do weekly grocery shopping for chicken breasts and fish fillet, wake an extra hour early (or stay an extra hour late) to prepare my food for the next day. That's where I'll draw the line. I can't do that, I won't do that, I refuse to prepare my own food.

Which sucks. So I'm stuck with eating what's easily bought. Ugh. I hate this.

Rereading Gatsby

It may not be apparent, but I used to read beyond my level. I blame it on the SRA system of segregating reading levels by color, and growing up in a household run by war veterans. I consumed and enjoyed stories for their telling, and much less for what was being told.

I read "The Pilgrim's Progress" in fifth grade, and did not process it as a Christian allegory. I thought it was a really dark Alice in Wonderland rip-off. I read the entire Lord of the Rings series (including the hobbit) in sixth grade, and thus, the politics and power play were lost on me, zipping over my head as I read distracted by all the awesome swordfights and dwarves and dragons.

Thus, a few weeks ago, as I was deciding on which of my books to give away and which ones to keep, I came across my copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. I remember reading it in high school as one of those books that I would read in between the books I had to read. I knew it was an old favorite of mine, and that for a while, I fancied myself the titular character, but I could not exactly remember how or why. So, I decided to reread it.

Rereading a book years after one has encountered it for the first time is romantic in its own. Much like Jay Gatsby reintroducing himself to Daisy Buchanan, the act of opening the book to its first page is ripe with tension: would I love it as much as I did the first time, or would something have changed?

Rereading an old favorite after you've grown some years is like reading it for the first time. You've acquired new learnings since then, you've read other stories, you've seen more of the world than before. As I reread Gatsby, I realized I was discovering layers of meanings in the story that I have previously missed. I could relate to Gatsby more, I could understand where he was coming from. I was getting so much more from reading it the second time around.

I love The Great Gatsby. Jay Gatsby is easiest one of my favorite literary heroes. He's a social climbing romantic who had everything but the girl. It adds intrigue to his character that he acquired his wealth after being "the companion" of a wealthy old man who lived in a yacht, and that he holds court in swank restaurants with money lenders of dubious character. Of all his swag and glam, Jay Gatsby is a little boy in the presence of Daisy, the woman that has taken possession of his heart.

Thus, we fall in love with our old loves, in our reintroduction, in our replayed enchantment, because we see with eyes that have seen the world, and discover all new ways to appreciate the beauty that has captivated us in our naivete.

Perhaps, rereading books and revisiting old loves also have a common disadvantage: doing either doesn't change the ending. But what's so wrong with that? Sometimes, we reread stories knowing how they'll end-- in heartbreak, in objects thrown in the air to shatter against walls, in gunfights and gore. But that doesn't make rereading them less enjoyable. In fact, it is in this bittersweet knowledge that makes the experience richer, fuller.  Because we know it wouldn't end happily ever after, we turn each page delicately, savoring the irony of each happy paragraph, each hopeful scene, each time the story would seem to go on a high note, knowing it would all eventually crash.

That's why we couldn't stop opening that closed book, could we?