‘Xed’-mas List

With Christmas just around the corner, I can already see last minute shoppers. And with last minute shoppers, come last minute gifts a.k.a. gifts-that-took-me-no-more-than-3-minutes-to-pick-out-for-you.

I have prepared a list of gifts that one should avoid during last minute shopping. This list shall serve as a guide to shoppers to spare their victims, er, gift recipients from the agony of smiling and lying that the gift they just received is the best thing in the whole wide universe.

Underwear. One can never have too many undergarments. But once you give someone the same pair for the 3rd time around, then we all know that you really haven’t put any thought into the whole gift giving business.

Socks. I’m not complaining about socks, since socks are a good thing. Like underwear, one can not have too many socks. But consider this, if you give your friend a pair of socks for the nth time this year (meaning, you gave him a pair on his birthday, during Easter and on some other occasion), then you might seriously reconsider not giving him another pair.

Soap. Unless your soap bar comes from outer space and has been used by Neil Armstrong, I highly doubt that anybody would be elated to receive a bar of soap from you.

Shampoo. Bottled shampoo is okay, especially if it is exotic and has a weird name. But if the shampoo comes in sachets and still has a price tag on it, it only means one thing: ‘You stink, you need a bath. Now.’

Sanitary Napkins. Yes, I have received these wondrous liquid catching contraptions on several occasions. No, I do not complain when I get these, since after all they are really handy when that time of the month comes. But giving these things to somebody of the opposite sex (who obviously has no idea what to make of these) is something I do not recommend – therefore, check if you got the names right on the gift boxes.

Self-help books. Unless the book magically improves one’s life right after reading, I highly doubt self-help books are an entertaining read (unless of course, self-help books have become action-adventure books with magic wand wielding boys). It’s Christmas, everybody is getting fatter and loading up on those calories, the last thing one wants to read is how being overweight is another ‘burden’ in one’s life that needs to be fixed right now.

So there you have it, gifts that are highly useful yet as dull as an unsharpened pencil (duh). Yet if you still receive gifts like these, don’t be bothered. Sure, they aren’t as supercalifragilisticexpialidocious as you wanted them to be, but it’s the thought that counts – it’s Christmas after all.

Here’s my secret that gets me through every Christmas when I receive these gifts, I think of one thing and all will be merry: Johnny Depp in a Santa suit – need I say more?

Postponed

It’s amazing how fast things can change in a matter of minutes. One moment the sun was shining and everything’s hunky-dory, and the next thing you know it’s already pouring cats and dogs (and other animals if you wish).

At one moment of our short-lived vacation, we imagined ourselves at home (or at the beach), away from school, enjoying our free time and not worry about exams, projects or assignments, while Heads of States would tackle more serious matters on political, social and economic development.

Yet all our musings (as well as the planned meetings) went down the proverbial drain as soon as tropical storm Seniang made itself known to the world.

So it’s back to reality for all of us.

This means, it’s back to school, back to work and back to our daily activities.

Oh well, the thought of having a break from school was fun while it lasted. Now, instead of finding ourselves on a deserted island far from civilization, we find ourselves behind our textbooks and computers once again, in that same old, stuffy classroom or workplace.

It’s hard to imagine, that the once bustling Cebu International Convention Center (CICC), which was bustling with life with foreign and local media, will now lay dormant and shall now wait for its reawakening this January.

It’s quite unfortunate that the 12^th Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) Summit has been postponed – not that because we are all looking forward to that much needed 4-day break – but because of all the preparations that have been made.

The labor force who worked tirelessly day and night for the completion of the CICC, are now probably eating their hardhats after the news passed of the postponement of the summit. Personally, these people should also be recognized and commended for a job well-done for building a convention center in a matter of months (which is quite a difficult feat).

The Christmas décor, which are scattered all throughout the cities of Mandaue, Lapu-lapu and Cebu, now has to be replaced by new décor come this January – unless of course we’ll celebrate Christmas in January, which is fine by me (it gives me more time to do my Christmas shopping).

It’s quite sad really, since everybody has been preparing for the summit for months and now we all have to wait for next year for the summit to resume. But then again, there is really nothing much we can do, after all, we are talking of a natural phenomenon here which has caused the postponement of the summit.

Now is probably the best time to be blessed with godly powers and do the most logical thing with them (aside from wishing for world peace): have the summit this week and postpone the storm until further notice.

Flying guide

After 10 years of safely staying grounded (literally and figuratively), I finally was able to take the skies once more. And to say that I was petrified would have been the understatement of the year.

Sure, I am accustomed to flying. I did that as a kid, flying from one time zone to another and sitting for 16 hours straight. But like I said, I did that as a kid and my last flight was 10 years ago.

Now that I’m old enough to understand that I’m sitting within a hunk of metal with wings, and dangling my life literally thousands of feet above the ground, flying does not sound appealing at all.

Knowing the escape exits is not enough. I’m squeezed in a hotdog like contraption with about another hundred people in it. If the plane crashes, I highly doubt knowing where the emergency exits are will help since everybody would just be screaming and running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

I know how to blow up my life vest. The ugly yellow/orange jacket can easily be blown up by just pulling a string or blowing it up by oneself (though, in times of emergency, I don’t think any person would blow the vest up by themselves, since they’d waste their breath on screaming).

One barf bag (a.k.a. motion sickness bag) is not enough these days. As a kid, I used to throw up frequently while riding a plane (or any moving vehicle for that matter). They should provide more barf bags to those who have weak stomachs. If the first bag is full, I do not want to be the stewardess who has to clean up the mess that the supposedly second barf bag should contain.

Flight personnel discuss about emergency landings and what to do. Each seat comes with a manual of the dos and don’ts during emergencies. I find these nice and all but after riding these flying monster contraptions almost half of my life, I know what to do during emergency by heart.

Sure, knowing what to do during emergencies is nice and all – since it does after all safe your life, but seriously, airplanes must come with a panic manual.

Listen, I sit for 50 minutes straight in a tiny metal contraption. I entrust my life in this huge piece of machinery that can malfunction any minute and drop out of the sky in seconds. After 10 years of no flying, I am paranoid as hell.

Instead of giving me a mindless magazine of ‘what’s hot and what’s not’, I’d rather page through a ‘How to not panic guide for idiots’, I’m sure there’s something in there that talks about turbulence and how to not die of a heart attack – page 58 perhaps, next to ‘What to do when your pilot accidentally flies into a tornado’.

The big 2-4

While filling up a form, a friend of mine practically carved the number 20 into the paper in the space designated for her age. With a huge frown, she looked like she was on the verge of tearing up the offending (though totally innocent) piece of paper.

I don’t get it why nearly everybody I know gets so riled about entering their 20s. Perhaps this is because I haven’t reached the so-called big 2-oh yet.

I wonder how my friend would react if one day she would wake up and realize she just turned 30. Now that would be a rather scary sight (and probably, really hazardous to my health).

I could only just imagine what would happen to me once I turn 30. In one of my past columns, I talked about career paths and how I’d probably end up writing international bestsellers and running a magazine (if I keep my fingers crossed really, really tightly). Wouldn’t it be great if that actually did happen to me once I turn 30?

Now if that really did happen, I’m sure I’ll have that beach house and champagne in no time at all. Hey, whoever reads my columns will get free invites to all parties I’d be hosting at the imaginary beach house – the parties of course, shall strictly be poetry readings, literary and journalism discussions.

As appealing as that all may sound, I highly doubt that that beach house shall pop up by the time the clock strikes midnight, signaling my 30th birthday – right now, I shall continue to dream.

Speaking of celebrations, Sun.Star is celebrating its 24th year anniversary. With all the talk about what I’d be when I turn 30 (prophesizing, in other words), it makes me wonder what I’d be doing when I’m 24.

Turning 24 is not only a significant number to Sun.Star right now, but also to me, because this means that I would only have one year to go before I would have a quarter-life crisis (which is hilarious to think of) and I’d already be working at that time (hopefully).

I fell in love with print media once I stepped into college, first taking up Mass Communication before majoring in Media Communications. By the time I turn 24, I certainly do hope that I would work in the field of print media as a writer.

Journalism is exciting, something I have learned in many journalism classes from some of the best journalism teachers I have encountered.

Beating deadlines, getting sources, writing articles and typing away furiously is something I have fallen in love with and I would love to establish a seriously relationship with all of it once I turn 24 (or even sooner).

Now, I can’t wait to turn the big 2-4.

In school

There’s no turning back now. The signature says it all, the stamp confirms it and your faith has been sealed. The schedule doesn’t lie. You are now in and there are no escape routes or fire exits anywhere. You are trapped.

School is in.

Ah, I make it sound as if school were a torture chamber. There’s really nothing to worry about. As long as professors don’t wield axes and pull out huge iron maidens from behind the blackboard, school won’t be that painful.

Sure, we cringe at the sight of red marks on our essays and the sight of test papers puts us into psychological turmoil but we got to look at the bright side of if all. We are learning.

Doesn’t that just make your brain cells tingle? Can’t you feel your brain actually grow and the dust that has accumulated over the weeks no activities disappear as your cerebral cortex goes into full swing?

C’mon people! Put on your thinking hats and for once be happy that school is in full swing!

I’m sure somebody out there must be nodding his head in agreement, while others are just about ready to pelt me with rotten tomatoes.

But before you pelt me with rotten produce and learn my route pattern and find out where I usually eat dinner, let me show you some ways of how to get you to school on time, make your stay there a bit more bearable (and less like medieval torture) and hopefully make you less allergic to the word ‘school’ (and then you can shower me with your rotten vegetables).

Stop coming into class late. There is nothing more than annoying that hearing (and watching) you come in late into class, it not only disturbs the class and the teacher but obviously, you have also just missed 30 minutes of valuable class time.

If you are a consistent late comer, try to make an effort to actually come on time for once. Set your alarm clock and wake up when it rings, owning an alarm clock and hitting the snooze button at the first ring and going back to sleep defeats the purpose of owning one (especially if you hit the snooze button three more times).

Have something to look forward to. I’m sure something in school motivates you. If it’s not your extremely cute crush in your algebra class, then it must one of the meals in the canteen. Look at it this way, even if you flunked your history test, you might as well just pig out in the canteen and eat your sorrows away (though, this is not advisable).

Find a subject you actually like. I’m sure out of all the subjects you are taking this semester; something has got to appeal to you. That’s motivation enough to get your behind into school and hopefully not late for your classes.

And lastly, be happy you are in school, you are lucky to be in school.

Go on, bring on the tomatoes!

Stalked

If stalking were legal and not psychologically disturbing, I’d happily stalk Johnny Depp. Not to mention, if I had enough money to spend on plane tickets, bus and taxi fare, food and camouflage clothes, I’d easily pitch a tent in front of his house and gawk at his royal Deppness.

But in reality, I live on the other side of the globe, thousands of miles away from this wonderful eye candy. Plus, I do not have the time and more importantly, the money, to fly over to America (or wherever Depp is) and follow him around – if I did, I’d just prove one thing: I have no life (and I need a psychologist).

It amazes to what extent stalkers will go just to get a piece of their object of obsession. It just seems so wrong (not to mention psychologically disturbing) when stalkers begin to steal personal items of their so called victims.

Seriously, why on earth do you steal used chewing gum, underwear, or a pregnancy test?! Cloning quickly comes to mind, but that procedure is just too expensive and cloning human beings is just a big no-no.

What ever happened to the normal lock of hair, hairbrush or t-shirt stealing? I’m sure building creepy shrines in your clothes cabinet dedicated to your stars is still popular somewhere on the globe.

Stalkers need a life – and a shrink. I do not see the point of tailing somebody who is richer than you, prettier than you, more popular than you and not to mention, won’t even give you a chance in the dating pool. And let’s not forget that these are filthy rich people, they can send the police after you and have your ass. I mean, doesn’t that hurt your self-esteem? That or you are just a total masochist.

I’m no stalker material. Given the chance to stalk (is that even possible?) I obviously lack the resources and I do not have the patience to follow Johnny Depp around and watch what he is eating. And besides, I am not yet that screwed up in the head anyway.

Stalkers should give it a rest. Come to think of it, that was so last century. Ogling people you’ll never meet, talk to or socialize with is rather pathetic. Use your stalking skills for something more productive, like working for the FBI or something. I’m sure your lurking skills will be useful for something like that.

Get a hobby. Play American football, I think you can lurk around and then pounce your opponent at the most unexpected time. For Pete’s sake, do that than stalking some poor person and getting on their nerves.

And one more thing that every stalker (or that person who follows you around and does not call himself a stalker but just a ‘friend’) should know and get into their psychologically damaged heads: get a life.

Halloween

Why parents dress up their children as clowns is beyond me. There is nothing cute about a sickly pale human being, with an oversized red nose and smudgy red lips. Above all else, they just looks really scary. (Let’s not even talk about ghouls and vampires, since, there is definitely nothing cute about monsters, no matter how young they are and how much they drool).

I admit, I am afraid of clowns. They do not amuse me, there is nothing funny about their colorful clothes, red noses and oversized shoes. And children in clown suits should be banned from the streets. Mini-clowns are just as scary as adult clowns and not to mention, twice as annoying.

With Halloween just around the corner, I expect to see a lot more tiny Spidermans, Batmans, ghouls, witches, princesses and dare I say, clowns on every street corner and mall around the city. This really doesn’t help my fear of clowns at all, as I am sure to bump into some baby clown somewhere. My bad luck has promised me so.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Halloween. The talk of hauntings, witches, ghouls and goblins are extremely exciting and not to mention, hair-raising. The feel of goose bumps on your skin and the chill that runs down your spine when you and your friends share ghost stories in the dead of the night just add to the fun factor.

Pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns have always been a must for every Halloween celebration. As a young kid, I remember eating pumpkin pie while being dressed up as a princess.

Yes, as a kid, I did the whole dress-up thing. I mean, who doesn’t? I’m sure, at some point in your life, your parents smother you with costumes and paint your face. I was a princess, a magician, and (I’m having difficulties sharing this) a bunny rabbit.

Yes, with all the candy, pumpkin, and costumes, Halloween is indeed fun.

Though as much as I love the pumpkins, the jack-o-lanterns, the whole scary atmosphere and the ghost stories, I firmly draw the line on horror movies and, well, clowns. I have yet to see a full length horror movie. And I have no plans of doing so, in fear of cardiac arrest or falling into a permanent coma.

I do not see the point of scaring yourself on purpose. I’d rather scare somebody else than purposely subject myself to two hours of pure terror and possible heart failure.

My real reason for never watching a horror movie? I’d rather not like to know what goes ‘bump’ in the night nor would I like to know what hides beneath my bed (do not, by any means, say clowns!).

Yes, I know, I am a chicken. Pass me the chicken suit – that’s my costume this year. Happy Halloween everybody!

Break

After harrowing final examinations, piles of projects and assignments and an extremely good thesis proposal turnout, I can finally rest in peace.

Thank God for the tiny wonder of semester breaks. I wonder what we would do without this tiny blessing of no school, no teachers, no homework, and no tests.

I have promised myself that I’d go into hibernation. For the next three weeks, I shall officially become a bum and do relatively nothing – well, aside from writing this column and continuing with our thesis research (which therefore, defeats the whole ‘relatively nothing’ phrase).

Becoming a sem break bum is a scary thought however. There really is nothing wrong with bumming around, but becoming unproductive and turning into the proverbial couch potato is something that is not on my top ten list of ‘things to do’ during sem break. And as much as I love potatoes, turning into a vegetable is something that does not sound appealing one bit.

With that in mind, I have promised myself that while doing ‘relatively nothing’, I shall still be as productive as I was while being in school – minus the homework, teachers, tests and projects (however, I can not subtract our thesis, since research just never ends).

In fear of having my brain turn into mush, I’ll be sure to read the books I have borrowed from my friends. Never mind the fact that these books I have with me are school related (thesis related even). While on break, I might as well brush up on my Communication theories and continue to drool over McLuhan and his ‘medium is the message’ gig.

To avoid information overload and possible aneurisms, I shall also sinfully indulge myself with movies. Since going to the cinema is just too expensive for me (I am perpetually broke), it’s a good thing I’ve borrowed some great CDs from friends. As I separate myself from reality (and create my own), I will indulge in Kubrick and Kurosawa and wonder if their genes would somehow magically pass on to me.

I would love to travel for once this sem break. But unless somebody actually plans the trip, tells me where I could stay and how much it all costs, I shall continue dreaming of beaches, sand and the open air. For now, I will content myself with the province air and silently hope that somebody hears my pleas of traveling.

Ah, it’s good to know that I have somewhat planned out my break with doing ‘relatively nothing’, at least now I know I wont be poking my eye with a fork out of complete boredom.

The bag battle

These days, Elementary and Prep students’ bags are getting bigger and bigger. I nearly tripped over a boulder-sized bag while struggling to get through the sea of Elementary students. My foot throbbed in pain as I hobbled down the hallway.

The number of bags-on-wheels in our school is increasing dramatically. It’s hard to navigate through the sea of square bags without hitting your shin against one of their hard corners or having your feet run over by these bulldozer-esque bags. I have lost count of how many times I nearly tripped over these bags (I got run over once, a kid ran down the hallway, his bag hitting me right in the kneecaps and causing me to fall flat on my face).

These bags are health hazards, since these things weigh a ton. I wonder what are inside these bags (which are mostly humongous square contraptions on wheels); surely, there can’t be a dead body inside it? (A dead pet maybe?)

I love backpacks, they make me feel like a student and they are undeniably cool (no matter how much others say that ‘It’s so High School’). I like to know that all my precious books and possessions are safely strapped to my back and not in some big box on wheels, which might loose its balance and topple over.

Speaking from experience, having used one of these bags-on-wheels (a.k.a. ‘The Stroller’), backpacks are way better than strollers. There’s no hassle in owning a backpack, you just pull a strap over your shoulder and you’d be on your merry way.

Strollers on the other hand, are impossible to control, pull up flights of stairs, maneuvering through a crowded hallway without successfully running over some feet and pulling it through a rocky path. Owning a stroller is a workout in itself.

I understand that kids these days get more books than they can carry on their backs and their notebooks now probably come in bulk, so parents resort to purchasing strollers, thinking it’s the easiest way to spare their child of carrying around so many books and notebooks. Yet, they don’t know how hard it really is to pull a heavy box up a narrow flight of stairs until they are in their 8-year-old’s shoes.

Kids aren’t kids anymore. Their bags are constant reminders of the huge workload they have to lug around virtually everywhere they go. Gone where the days were kids would be running down the street, backpack swinging wildly on their backs, dirty from head to foot, joining street games and enjoying the prime of their young lives.

I’d give anything to have my old backpack back. To be wearing it while playing street football, during scavenger hunts and a good round of ‘make believe’.

The way I see it, aside from causing bodily harm and housing books, the only thing that these huge bags are good for, is the fact that they become excellent seats for the kids while waiting for somebody to pick them up. Talk about functionality.

Homecoming

Going home is always like entering the twilight zone. New buildings either popup or disappear, trees are either planted or cut down, banners, fliers, posters are practically everywhere.

A nauseating wave of nostalgia always hits me after a one hour ride from the city – that or I am just really carsick (and am about to barf).

Just to make it clear, I am not homesick. I lived somewhere on the ass of Cebu; I just relocated into the city. Homesick is the last thing I am right now, since after all, I still am on the same island (and last I checked, the ass that I lived on, did not move).

Actually, going home bothers me. Not that I am reluctant of going home, because I am not. I enjoy going home to my family (really, who would pass up a free meal with your family? Unlimited computer access? A comfy bed? Your family, for that matter? And no bathroom fights? If you pass that all up, something’s seriously wrong with you). Actually, it’s the old memories that bother me.

Because, nothing is worse than remembering where you slipped and made a fool of yourself - in public might I add.

Should I mention how people have changed? Not that I like talking about people, but the teens do have changed. Going home is like entering a world of confused teenagers, wearing clothes 5 sizes too big for them, humongous socks and oddly colored handkerchiefs. Not to mention that their vocabulary is limited to ‘yo’ and ‘whatdup?’ – with the occasional addition of ‘man’ (if the brain permits).

Perhaps, I was wrong. The place I lived in has evolved and turned into some kind of ghetto.

Talk about suffering of identity crisis.

During my time, we played Chinese garter, patentero, tubig-tubig and other Filipino games. Now, these ghetto kiddies spend half their life glued to the computer screen playing 3D games that turn your mind into mush and let’s not forget, waste their tparents’ hard earned money.

I went to my old High School a week ago and suddenly wished to drop everything and go back to being an oblivious high school student. Not that I want to relive all the teenage drama that nearly every High School student went through – that is something I can certainly live without and.

It’s amazing how much has changed over the span of nearly three years. The kids that once called me ‘ate’ have suffered growth spurts and are now as tall as trees, plus, they’ve reached puberty (bring on the drama!).

One good thing of going home, aside from the free stuff you get from your parents, is that you come to a revealing realization. Something that slowly sinks in after somebody calls you one too many times ‘ate’ and nostalgia hits you once too often. You are getting old (that, or you think like an old person. I know I am).

Intrams Advisory

We have successfully reached the peak of intramurals season. Balls are flying through the air, bats are swinging and scrabble tiles litter the floor. Let’s not forget training has become rigorous, practices have become all-nighters and brain cells are working at a mile a minute.

It’s really no surprise when coaches or team captains begin to turn into total hotheads, or worse, modern-day Hitlers. Fields become bloody battlegrounds, and teams find themselves in concentration camps.

Talk about sucking the fun out of intramurals.

Its practices like these that I don’t join ball games. I’d rather pop a blood vessel thinking up 7-letter words than bother myself with hotheaded teammates, coaches or team captains.

I know this sounds so cliché and over-used, and preached by every Physical Education teacher all over the world, but Intramurals are supposed to be all about fun and games, building camaraderie and friendship with the other courses and in the process, learning how to exercise.

Note to all captains, chill, man chill! For crying out loud, it’s not the Olympics!

I never find winning important. Sure, being awarded first place allows you to gloat and flaunt your shiny medal (or trophy), but it’s not that important.

I enjoy practices more than I enjoy winning – which in reality, doesn’t happen often. I’m quite unlucky. But you don’t see me stalking the hallways like a crazy person, demanding from my team to play better, screaming at them for putting down 4 letter words instead of 5.

As a team captain, I only demand one thing from the team: have fun.

To hell with winning.

I’d rather have one good laugh with my teammates than win a hundred times – especially if it meant turning into Hitler and causing them scrabble nightmares. Scrabble practices, by the way, are made of sharing lame text jokes, getting hit by stray softballs, laughing over lame jokes, and putting down the occasional 7-letter words all the while exchanging ghost stories during sundown. I don’t turn over scrabble boards, make teammates do pushups and I definitely don’t make them eat their own words. However, jokes have been made that the entire team should start practices with warm-ups, stretches and running around the field.

Seriously though, hardcore intramurals players should learn to relax – especially the captains. It’s just a game, if you loose, it’s not the end of the world. It just proves that you need more practice, that’s all.

Intrams advisory to all the killer coaches or team captains out there: get a life and have fun. There’s no point in torturing your team and sucking out all the fun of intrams. Besides, I’m sure you’re slowly pissing off your entire team and the last thing that you want to happen is a team mutiny and be pelted with balls, chess pieces, or scrabble tiles.

Have fun and enjoy the game. And don’t kill the team.

At the movies

I felt like choking on my popcorn as I looked at the posters of the upcoming movies. I never liked romantic comedies, especially if the plot was mind-numbing and causes brain damage.

The much overused, abused and misused plots of Hollywood movies cause me nosebleeds. And before Hilary Duff can say “Like, oh my god!” I have already slipped into a permanent coma.

Today’s romance movies are never romantic, especially if it involves one character standing in the rain and proclaiming his love for somebody. When I have the misfortune of watching these hapless characters on screen the only thing I want to do is throw a bottle of beer at the aforementioned hapless standing-in-the-rain character and scream at him/her to find somebody else.

Dude, what’s the point of standing for hours in the rain, risking pneumonia and even death just for some girl? Grow a backbone, suck it up and be a man. Nobody likes a sniveling guy in the rain, no matter how much you pull the puppy-that-got-kicked-into-the-rain look. Besides, that’s not even cute, that’s pathetic.

These plotlines make me want to kill myself. Usually, my IQ drops and I begin to drool. Before the movie ends, nothing makes sense anymore and the words I hear are gibberish. When characters kiss on screen, I roll my eyes. That’s when I grab a fork and am about to stab myself.

I don’t get it why other people get giddy when they see these scenes on screen. I find it retarded when people actually have the audacity to catcall and hoot. That’s stupid. The characters can’t hear your hooting, so what’s the point? It only proves you’re not quite right in the head (there is something wrong with you psychologically – you can’t separate reality from fiction).

It’s quite sad that people nowadays would rather spend money on IQ dropping, coma inducing and death threatening movies than watch films with substance. Are films with substance too much for today’s moviegoer? I hate to think that the brains of today’s moviegoers are too small to process mentally stimulating films.

Thank god for the occasional independent films that have come our way. Recently, we’ve had quite a lot of indie films that have been released publicly. Jeffrey Jeturian’s Kubrador and Director’s name Sarong Banggi are two of the recent movies I have seen and I’m quite happy to say that my IQ increased and I did not slip into a coma.

More people should start watching indie films. Seriously, it doesn’t require you that much thinking power – as long as you are in the right state of mind and are a critical moviegoer (or at least, a tiny bit), then everything’s hunky-dory.

We’ve got excellent homegrown talent, and it would only be right that we give these guys a chance. Oh, and by homegrown talent I mean the talent you find in independent films and not in movies which are named after popular romance songs.

Misspelled Names Movement

Way back when I was still an egg, whilst in elementary school, I was asked by one of my peers why my name was spelled differently. By differently she meant why my Elisabeth’s ‘z’ was an ‘s.’

“The nurse had an awful penmanship,” I smartly replied. “Her ‘z’ looked like an ‘s’,”

Everybody bought it. Either I was a good liar or I had really gullible classmates. It never really occurred to them that the ‘s’ instead of a ‘z’ was intentional, if other people had oddly spelled names, I had every right to have the ‘s’ in my name.

Just to make it clear, my name is not a typographical error and the nurse did not have an ugly penmanship. And no, I was not named after John the Baptist’s mother.

I get upset when people misspell my name. At times, even my friends misspell my name – which in turn makes me question my friendship with them (“After so many years, you still can’t make out the difference between an ‘s’ and a ‘z’?!”) My name on most certificates and awards are misspelled, which is quite upsetting – I am this close to getting a professional calligrapher have them all corrected. (Let’s not even talk about my family name – I’ve lost count of how many times it has been misspelled.)

Years ago, I had a school ID wherein my name was Elizabeth – now that is just sad. After so many years of studying in an institution, you’d expect that at least the school would know how to spell your name. I guess I was wrong.

Is it not enough that I put much effort in pronouncing my name, making the ‘s’ sound like an ‘s’ and not a ‘z’? Is it not a dead giveaway that one of my nicknames is Lis and not Liz?

If this continues, I might as well start wearing a nametag everywhere I go. If that doesn’t work, I’ll write my name on my forehead. That has to definitely work (if by then people still misspell my name, then they are all stupid and can’t read.)

I’m pretty sure there are a lot of other people out there who have their names butchered by other people. So our names are spelled a bit differently than what you are used to, but the least you could do is double check and not assume that our names are spelled as they are pronounced. For all you know, our names could be French and have too many silent letters.

I understand that it’s pretty embarrassing to ask how to spell Elisabeth, because if you’d do ask me that question, I’d probably laugh at you. But at the very least, people could ask if it is with a ‘s’ or with a ‘z’ (after all, the letter z isn’t the only letter in the alphabet).

It won’t be long before I shall be launching the Misspelled Names Movement – whoever misspells our names shall be hung upside-down by the toes. Our parents thought long and hard before picking our carefully planned (and spelled) names. If misspelled names continue, certificate writers will have to think twice before writing down names on certificates.

Jumping Off

I always wondered what it felt like to jump off a cliff. I bet the experience would be mind blowing, as the wind whips around you and your body crashes into the awaiting sea below.

Yes, I mean freefalling and no, I do not have suicidal tendencies (my life is not yet that horrible.)

Though, as tempting as the call of the sea is and as much as I want to have my heart skip several beats due to the adrenaline rush, only one thing now poses a problem. This is quite embarrassing to admit, but me jumping off a cliff won’t happen anytime soon. Since, for one thing, I don’t know how to swim.

No, I didn’t lead a deprived childhood.

Like any other kid, I went to swimming classes. I did the drills; I swallowed litters of chlorinated water, I nearly drowned more than once and got allergies that left me red for days. But I still didn’t get a good grasp of staying afloat. With that in mind, I’d like to believe that I’m too smart for swimming; back then, I cared more about math than I did about drowning. (Which I know, is an extremely lame excuse.)

However, after attending the 1st Future Leaders Business Summit by Aboitiz, this all changed (No, they didn’t teach me how to swim!)

“Don’t be afraid to jump,” said Al Aboitiz in his talk on Management and Leadership.

This may sound suicidal on so many levels, yet so right at the same time. In what ever we do, if we are just fueled with passion and driven by desire then jumping off a cliff would be easy – proverbially speaking of course.

Now, I wont be jumping off the next cliff I see (or bridge for that matter), but after the summit I felt stuffed. Not because they treated us like Christmas turkeys and kept feeding us throughout the two day summit, but because of the valuable insights I’ve acquired from the various key note speakers – after all, it’s not everyday you get to sit right next to CEOs and place them in the hot seat.

Today, tomorrow or next week, I might just jump off a cliff. Just give me something to keep me afloat, and everything’s hunky-dory. Who cares if the orange life vest clashes with my attire, it’s the fact that I jumped that matters.

Okay, there’s the probability that beachcombers would be picking up washed up bits and pieces of me along the seashore after I painfully crash-land on the rocky planes of the cliff. But hey, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

After all, I’m no longer afraid to jump. It’s time to take risks.

Now will you please hand me that life vest, I’m jumping. I’ll see you in the beckoning ocean.

Piglet, what are you?

Why do we have to bother ourselves with questioning a cartoon character’s sexuality? Will it change the world if we finally figure out that Piglet, Pooh Bear’s tiny sidekick, is actually female rather than male (or male rather than female)?

Yes, I can see it now. World hunger will suddenly disappear once Piglet comes out of his (or her) closet. Poverty will indeed be history as the pink pig announces his/her sex.

“I am a girl/boy!” shall be on the front page of various national broadsheets. Corrupt officials will be so surprised by the revelation that they will forget their corrupt ways and admire Piglet forever.

Nations will be so stunned that their economy somehow booms overnight. It shall be called the ‘Piglet-hype’, and Piglet paraphernalia would be the most bought items on the market.

Before we know it, the color pink shall become a world wide color. People will no longer get a tan, but instead will be completely pink. 'Pink in a can' will be global hit and tanning saloons will be out of business unless they start calling themselves 'Pinking saloons.'

Flags of all nations shall have hints of pink in all of them. People who detest any shade of pink shall be condemned. People will literally start wearing rose colored glasses and while they're at it, wear pink contact lenses.

Soon thereafter, people will be healthier. They will not eat pig (or god forbid, piglets), in fear of offending Piglet. Man will eat organic food and be in total zen mode. “One with nature,” shall be our battle cry! Oh, and let’s not forget the honey, as to not forget poor little Pooh (and while we are at it, we might as well give the poor bear a pair of pants. He must feel cold down there.)

A “save the piglet” movement will soon follow, and anybody caught eating pig shall be subjected to medieval punishment. Cows and chicken in turn, will be extinct after several years and we will then join herds and eat grass.

Of course, all of this is just imagined. As much as I want poverty to be history, a piglet cannot do that overnight. Nor can a tiny pig stop world hunger – unless it offers itself for mass consumption. And if it is not yet to clear to some dense people, Piglet is a two-dimensional drawing – it's not alive.

Are we really that bored with our lives that we try to figure out a cartoon character's gender rather than doing something productive? Would it hurt to actually lift a finger and do something other than figuring out a pig's sexuality or a sea sponge's gender preference. Life can't be really that boring, can it?

Now, if you are really that bored, you can make yourself useful by going to Bikini Bottom and ask Spongebob if he has the cure for the common colds instead of asking him if he's gay. That's the least you can do.

Rainy Days

I’m never prepared for the rainy season. I hate lugging around umbrellas, so I never bring one around. Raincoats are out of the question, since I don’t own one and will never use one either (too old school). I’d much rather walk in the rain and get soaking wet.

I never liked driving while it rains too. Aside from the atrocious traffic a heavy downpour can cause, it also brings about huge floods and ankle deep puddles.

Why do I complain about puddles and floods while driving, you ask? The answer is quite simple, I hate cleaning cars. It’s such a hassle to clean cars once it has rained; especially when you drive through some murky, green waters of god knows what.

My father doesn’t believe in Car Wash services. He believes in elbow grease and our trusty old bucket. Most of my childhood was spent cleaning his car and motorcycle and being sopping wet all the time.

My father owns an off roads jeep, it takes on great speeds (I was never late for a class) and is naturally perfect for rocky terrain. As any other jeep would have it, it has no windows. When it rains, you obviously get a bit wet, that’s something I’ve gotten used to over time.

Now, when the streets get flooded, driving around in the jeep gets risky. We usually drive a bit slower (which isn’t much really, since the family likes drive really fast) since we don’t want to cause any tidal waves of murky, green water and shower unsuspecting pedestrians with radioactive goop. However, there are still some inconsiderate idiots out there who drive at top speed and cause tiny tsunamis of the aforementioned goop.

I hate it when these half-brained drivers zoom by our jeep and cause huge tidal waves to come my way (since I sat in the passenger’s seat). Instinctively I usually duck and pray that my uniform won’t get soiled. I’ve had my fair share of murky, green water, that’s all I can say.

While in driving school, I had the misfortune of driving while it rained. With my instructor next to me, he told me to stay calm and just imagine that the sun was shinning. Yeah right, I thought. Just as I was about to enter the Reclamation area, some idiot had to fly by our car, obviously not seeing the “student driver” sign slapped on the ass of the car, causing a huge wave of muddy water to splash against my window.

What did I do?

I screamed and ducked. Mind you, I still passed driving school.

As much as I love walking through the rain and getting sick, driving through it is a whole other story. Especially if it involves radioactive water that floods the streets. Not until we invent water-repelling car windows, I’m not driving through any flooded streets.

Just give me an icebox and I’ll ride that across the flooded streets. Now I’m ready for the rainy season.

Cyber Space

I’m no fan of online chat rooms. Talking with oddly named (and spelled) entities just creeps me out. For all I know, I might be talking to a smelly, old dude from god-knows-where.

Sure, going online serves as an alternative for getting to know “real” people – since obviously you are just too lazy to get off your behind and go into the real world (instead, you head off into the cyber world). You encounter various characters online, characters you are sure would never meet in real life – after all, when can you meet a self-proclaimed exhibitionist, contortionist and an all-out idiot all wrapped into one?

Let’s get real here; there are just too many strange people online (including you?). Not to sound preachy or anything (or god forbid, sound like your mother), the online chat rooms are teeming with frauds and posers – you can practically smell their un-authenticity a cyber-mile away.

Plus, there are too many perverted people online. As if sexually driven people in the real world weren’t enough, you get more of these sick people online. These electronic, pixilated rooms are no longer safe from our so-called innocent eyes.

Before you know it, as you enter some nondescript chat room, you are given countless “hot offers” which you apparently can’t refuse. Hopefully, you are sane enough that you refuse the aforementioned ‘hot offer’ and boldly declare that his/her offer isn’t appealing all, but instead is as perverted as the sun is hot.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure that there are some decent people online. For all I know, there are decent people out there who like me, have nothing better to do with their lives but prowl around the internet and interact with other people - regardless of “what” or “who” they are.

It would be stupid for me to preach about not giving away contact information since I assume, we are all educated enough (and hopefully, right in the head) to know not to give out any kind of contact information. But then again, we give out our e-mail add to complete strangers online just for them to add us on Friendster – since we are desperate to increase our friends count.

I’ve grown tired of chat rooms after receiving one too many marriage proposals, group orgies invites and other unmentionables. I for one do not want to chat with some random dude named “Hot_stuffz_23” – because, for all I know, besides from being illiterate and utterly whack in the head, this dude is without a doubt some pathetic old dude going online in his empty, little house with his dusty Star Treck collection.

And besides, if you spend too much of your time talking to faceless people, that means only one thing – you need a life.

Etiquette

My friends and I were in a tight fix several nights ago. The night proved itself to be a defining moment in each of our lives, as we battled with a life altering decision.

To eat with proper etiquette or not.

If we stuck to our prim and proper selves, an image that society has drawn out for us and obviously demands from us, we would have ended up eating at a painstaking pace in rather peculiar positions. Then again, if we screwed etiquette over, we might be damned for life and be called “barbaric” in our eating habits (though, that is nothing new to us).

We ended up throwing etiquette out the window and eating in a less civilized way – though, not close to what others might call barbaric. The fact of the matter was: we were hungry. And besides, we were the only ones in the restaurant.

Don’t get us wrong, we are highly civilized people. Make us sit through a high class meal, and we assure you we do not burp at random timing or in varieties of pitch. If we even feel the need to, we can spice up the evening and start a discussion that would probably blow your mind away.

Now, that night, proved itself to be entertaining in its own little way. With the word ‘etiquette’ and all its meaning thrown out the proverbial window, we had a good laugh as to how odd we might have looked. Try eating in an area with little to none leg room and in wee little chairs, and you would know what we mean. But then again, all of us are vertically endowed, so perhaps it was also our genes fault that we had to try to eat several feet away from the table.

The tiny-ness of it all would have been perfect for a tea party, though. This now reminds me of my first tea party. I never owned a tiny plastic tea set made out of pink (since early on I detested the color) but instead, I made use of my mother’s expensive china – which now has several cups missing and is awfully mismatched. And instead imaginary tea, I used real liquid (what’s the point of having a tea party without any tea?) But since I wasn’t allowed to handle anything hot (I am a perpetual health hazard), I ended up pouring Sugar-Free Coke to Mr. Boo-boo, the once white Teddy Bear and Mr. Hopper, the Bunny Rabbit and my dinosaur T-Rex.

As a child, I was taught how to properly sip tea – the whole “pinky out” and ‘sip not slurp’ deal. I did that around grown-ups, after all, I was a ‘good little girl’. But around Mr. Boo-boo, Mr. Hopper and T-Rex, I held the cup in my clumsy hands and slurped Sugar-Free Coke.

Those are times I’d like to relive.

Now, if there were more people like Mr. Boo-boo, Mr. Hopper and T-Rex, the world would be a happy place and we can slurp all the Sugar-Free Coke we want – without worrying what others might think.

Stresstabs

Once you have your very first Stresstabs pill at my age, you very well know that your fate is sealed.

You just know that there would be more pills for you to swallow and more paperwork to haunt you forever. You know that as the first pill dissolves in your stomach and runs through your system, that you would be condemned for life as being the busiest person in the entire universe (in an overdramatic sense) and your social life becomes close to nonexistent.

You see yourself nose high in paperwork and hideously black eye bags. You will continually work yourself into a frenzy and your nerves would just about be ready to short-circuit.

For the past four months, I forgot how I looked without the eye bags. It’s something that comes along with being extremely busy and multitasking virtually everything. When I get extremely busy, I usually no longer walk down the corridors, but instead haunt them with a possessed look.

At the rate that I am going, I am sure that I would be making the makers of Stresstabs very, very happy. (And I in turn, stress-free.)

As I bought my first eight 7+1 Stresstabs (with Iron) packs at some nondescript pharmacy after a harrowing doctor’s check-up, I wondered how many other stressed souls were buying Stresstabs at that very evening.

With everything going on around us, who wouldn’t be stressed out?

I glanced at the guy next to me, wondering if the prices of the medication he bought stressed him out. With prices skyrocketing to Pluto, I wouldn’t be surprised if random people on the streets would die due stress attacks.

My friends and I have this tendency to think like extremely old people, and remember the yesteryears where with 5 pesos one could buy a lot of things and one could still go home with only 3 pesos in ones pocket. Only remembering these things makes me want to consume an entire 7+1 Stresstabs pack in one sitting.

They say that stress will make you look old, which in a way seems fitting on me and my friends (since we think like old people). But then again, looking old at my age stresses me out (since I obviously don’t want to look old), which in turn makes me stress about not stressing about stressing about looking old. Am I making sense?

Remembering Hello Kitty

I never was a fan of Hello Kitty. Growing up, I was all about Sailor Moon and the Power Rangers. Hello Kitty trends never interested me (lunch box sets, plush toys, stationary sets, hair clips). Frankly, I could’ve only cared less about the annoying little fur ball.

Until now, the only two Hello Kitty items I own are the Hello Kitty bedside lamp my cousin gave me during my Elementary graduation years ago. It’s broken now, a sign that I don’t like the commercialized cat (yet, I do appreciate the gift. I still have it by the way).

And the other one, which I thought never existed, is the Hello Kitty photo album that a friend gave me during my High School graduation. I rediscovered this item while I was packing my clothes. The sheer pinkness of it all nearly blinded me.

I stopped packing and stared at the hideously pink (or is it white?) fur ball, as it waved at me, as if taunting me to pick it up and be engulfed in its obscene cuteness. Part of me wanted to feed the retched thing to my dogs and the other part of me wanted to pick it up and skim through its contents.

I picked it up anyway.

Upon opening the album, I was greeted by my old High School pictures. Every page held captured moments that I had long forgotten. As I flipped through the pages, I could have sworn, that somewhere in the background I heard Sandie Shaw croon ‘Always something there to remind me’.

Memories.

Yes, we all have a lot of them – yet, we barely remember all. I only graduated from High School a couple of years ago, however there are certain moments in that not so glamorous stage of my life that have escaped my cerebral cortex and sad to say, these are the tiny events that mean the world to me.

I’ve finished packing. I’ve moved out and into a new place I call ‘home’, away from my parents, away from my home. Away from the old memories and the pink Hello Kitty photo album.

I left the old album at home, and this year I intend to fill a new album. Hello Kitty or not – I don’t care. It’s what’s inside that counts.

I used to worry about forgetting important events, knowing very well that my memory escapes me most of the time. But as Shaw sang in the 1960s ‘How can I forget you? But there is always something there to remind me, always something there to remind me’, I’m glad to own the Hello Kitty album – never mind the fact that it is indeed a Hello Kitty album.

Sometimes, it’s so ironic that something you don’t like that much holds so many precious memories. Perhaps, Hello Kitty isn’t so bad after all

Caller ID

Imagine this: You’re on a nice date, having after-dinner coffee, chatting about god-knows-what. For several brief minutes, the world seemed like a perfect place. The soft glow of the coffee shop and equally soft music add to the oh so romantic effect of the night.

You take a dainty sip of your hot Café Mocha, in a cheap attempt to look extremely girly and shy.

The two of you talk of school and how things are with your families. Both of you nod politely as something impressive was being said – never mind the fact that it made you feel incompetent and stupid(“Oh, so you were a Valedictorian? How nice,”).

You suddenly realize that he seems like a really nice guy, nothing like the other blokes you’ve been with. You faintly wonder if he’d ask you out again. All of the sudden you feel extremely giddy and girly inside.

But as I said, all of this lasted only for several brief minutes.

Suddenly, your phone rings, successfully bringing you out of your reverie. You curse your luck as the retched piece of technology continues to vibrate away in your purse. You check the caller ID.

And your perfect would just crashed.

With slight panic, you reject the call, hoping your date did not see the caller ID – if he did, that would be embarrassing. You smile nervously.

Seconds later, your phone vibrates again. You feel like crying – somebody must be conspiring against you up there.

“Your phone,” your date points at your phone, which was now in clear view. “Home,” he adds, with a grin.

You mentally die of embarrassment and offer him a small smile. So much for being cool and independent.

Answering the phone, you hear the infamous tagline of your mother.

“Naa ka’y plano mo uli?”

You check your watch, it was well past 10 PM.

You faintly wonder what you did to deserve to live.

Sighing, you answer that you do have plans to return home. You see your date laugh. You then decide that it was perhaps better to just jump off a bridge and to put an end to your nonexistent social life.

You begin to wonder what the use was of being well over 18 and not being able to enjoy its perks – say, going home slightly after 10?

Yep, you realize, your life’s just peachy.

Je ne sais quoi

Hardcore movie watching should be considered a sport – make that a extreme sport, since there is the possibility of hypothermia, immobile eyeballs and sore rear-ends. Let’s not forget the 10 straight hours that go into that.

My thesismates decided to do just that on the first day of the French Film Festival held in Ayala Center Cebu. And let’s just say, our body temperatures will never be the same again.

We sat in the same seats for 10 straight hours, only leaving them for the occasional bathroom break and required food intake. By the time we left the cinema, we were delirious and started talking in mock French – which we still do up to this day (“Omelet du fromage!”).

Film festivals are another great wonder in the world (next to coffee, that is). It would be insane to pass up a great opportunity to watch good films and not spend a dime. And if your lucky, you get to meet and greet (or perhaps stalk) filmmakers.

I watched all films, one of which I watched again since the way the characters in L’Esquive (Games of Love and Chance) talked fascinated me. French is an incredibly beautiful language, and hearing kids talk a mile a minute just makes me giggle, since it all sounds like gibberish (as if it didn’t sound like gibberish to being with).

I tried to teach myself French years back, since I had this strange vision of climbing the Eiffel Tower with some French poet and eat baguettes and escargot (yes, snails!) up there. Yet, I soon realized while learning how to roll my tongue properly that I lacked that certain je ne sais quoi in teaching myself French.

Oh well, the poet will just have to wait – I’ll just continue reading French poetry to myself and mispronouncing every other word.

Right now, I’m in no hurry to teach myself French again. I’ve forgotten most of it, if not all, and my French-English dictionary is in no condition to teach me another round of French as it is yellowed and frayed. And honestly, I lack the patience to do so anyway.

If we all want to learn French, we might as well go into the sport of hardcore movie watching. 10 hours can do wonders to your French vocabulary after reading all those subtitles.

Speaking of subtitles, wouldn’t it be great if people came with subtitles? That way, we all could be easy to read and understood – just like French films.

You say job, I say panic

I tripped twice on my first day back in school. Though I didn’t kiss the ground, it was still pretty embarrassing since there were spectators.

“It’s a sign,” a friend said.

Not that I’m a superstition person, but I hate to think that I’d be tripping all over the school for the rest of the school year. But then again, I’m a major klutz, so I wouldn’t be surprised if I trip every now and then.

Now that school is officially in, we once again go through the customary “Hi, my name is…” introductions to the point where it becomes a mind-numbing activity. By the end of the day, you already know your classmate’s telephone number, date of birth, address and probably her vital statistics.

Yet one famous classroom question has continuously haunted me and many others.

“What would be your future career?”

I suspect that poking my eye out, would be easier than answering that question.

In the early days, that question was so easy to answer. “I want to be doctor,” was the most typical and dare I say, overused answer. (I used to want to work in a Circus, but that all ended when I developed a chronic fear of clowns. I blame it all on that psychopathic killer doll: Chucky.)

I do know what I want to do with my life, and I’m sure everybody else knows what they want to do with their own lives, yet it’s rather hard trying to figure out a particular path. I don’t want to sound philosophical, but in life we are presented with many paths to choose from and it’s quite hard to pick just one or two.

So for those who have panic attacks when asked about their future career: Try to stay calm and just keep your options open. There’s no harm in dreaming, may it be farfetched or close to reality. Hey, I hope to run a magazine someday and own a beach house where I sip champagne languidly and write international bestsellers.

I think, we should all stop panicking when we hear that question. It doesn’t bring us any good and will probably only give us an aneurysm. We all just got to have at the very least something in mind as our future career – after all, we are all going to college, aren’t we?

Great, now I sound like Dr. Phil.

So what would my desired future career be? I’d be a one-eyed professional writer. I’m keeping my fingers crossed – I really want that beach house.

Footballzilla

A friend of mine once said that he found football (soccer) stupid.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, while holding a basketball. “Running after a ball. It seems stupid.”

Hah. He’s the one to talk. He and his stupid basketball.

It took all the will power in the world not to throttle him and make him eat his stupid ball. My hissy fit lasted for about an hour. After the bloodshed (due to paper cuts - it’s the only way I know how to inflict physical pain without the guilt), death threats and serious threats of severing our friendship permanently, he finally agreed that football was indeed a spectacular sport.

He had to say it anyway.

With the 2006 FIFA World Cup in full swing, he no longer dares to even breathe his dislike towards the game, since I’d be on a war path. Don’t get me even started if somebody would insult my team – I turn into Footballzilla.

Aside from that horrendous incident, I’ve been in football heaven. I watched the opening ceremony of the 2006 FIFA World Cup at a hotel with two of my friends. For once in my life, I’ve overlooked my stingy attitude and set foot in a posh hotel just to watch TV. Normally, I’d have a heart attack with what I’ve spent there, but this was for the greater good of football – so it was all just well worth it.

It’s wonderful to see Germany again, never mind the fact that I’m seeing it through a huge, flat screen TV. Rabid German football fans, with face paint and booze is such a spectacular sight, I wished I could be there. Not to mention the fact, I got an eyeful of nice, tight lederhosen – ah sweet nostalgia. Tears welled up in my eyes.

The opening game was a treat. Germany beat Costa Rica 4:2. Now that was a good opening match. It was a good thing that Germany did win, or else I would have wasted all my money for nothing.

With more matches on the way, I advise football first timers to watch the matches at sport bars or at some random pub. Nothing screams “I’m a fan” than being with other fans and screaming yourself silly. Never mind the booze – mind the loser who booed your favorite team. He’s gonna get it.

Go Germany, go!

Coffee Shops

I am a certified seat-hog at coffee shops. I can just sit there, put my brain on auto drive, do nothing but drink copious amounts of coffee for about 5 hours. Call me lazy, but that’s what I like to do during my spare time – no wonder my social life is next to nonexistent.

Coffee lovers such as myself would agree that coffee shops are probably the next best thing to sliced bread. After all, we coffee aficionados have to live off something. Prowling the streets aimless, low on caffeine, just won’t do.

Entering a coffee shop has always been a different experience. Upon entering, you see businessmen doing what they do best – do business. In another corner, you see students pour over textbooks for their next exam – they either look smart or want to look smart, the latter more often in most cases.

Depending where you enter, there are two worlds you can find in the coffee shop. The outside world, and the inside world. Naturally, you find the coffee drinkers of the outside world smoke themselves to high heavens.

In the inside, you’ll find royal bums such as myself, hogging the sofas and doing practically nothing. On occasion, these bums bring books to read, but this is a rare occurrence since we allow our brains to turn into mush the second our posterior comes in contact with the plush sofa seats. After sipping our coffee idly, we soon doze off and deprive other bums of wonderful seating for the next 5 hours.

Outside, you see artists, writers; other bums hold their traditional coffee meetings. They talk about god knows what and often leave on a high – may it because of the caffeine fix or their smoking, we will never know.

On occasion, bums like me come with every intention to write. After all, the sophisticated ambiance has to be good for something, right?

So armed with the infamous yellow pad and a cheap runny ballpen, I set out to write. If Rowling was able to write an international best seller at a roadside coffee shop of some kid with a stick, think of the wonders I would be able to write.

Three cups later, this article was born.