Inkblots by Elisabeth Baumgart

Summer heat

2007-04-09T02:03:00.000-07:00

IT’S officially summer when a Popsicle begins to melt the minute it leaves the freezer, and when one Popsicle is not enough to lower down one’s body temperature.

Ladies and Gentlemen, its summer and boy is it hot!

I’m sure right now, a good chunk of the Philippine population are swarming beaches everywhere and parading around in Speedos and skimpy bikinis. The beaches of Boracay and Bantayan are without a doubt filled with underdressed people soaking up the sun.

So while most people are out by the beach, enjoying a stress-free summer, sipping pina coladas and making good use of the ultraviolet rays of the sun, the rest of us are stuck at home or at work, or even in school, sweating our hearts out.

Honestly, it’s too hot to do anything. Once you step out into the sun, you know you’ll get baked in a matter of minutes. Five minutes in the sun, and you’ll be sweating like a pig and suffer a heat stroke.

Summer and I have a love-hate relationship. I love summer because it usually means no classes, a long break and no school work (though that recently changed with thesis assignments and our internship). At the same time, I hate summer because it’s extremely hot.

Yes, I know, hating summer is considered high crime. Go on, sue me. I don’t care. All I know is that it is hot and all of us are literally cooking to the point of resembling a well-done roast beef.

I guess we now have a reason to use Paris Hilton’s catch phrase: “That’s hot!”

It is summertime like this that makes you wish that you could lug around a huge air conditioner or better yet, turn off the sun for just a few minutes. Come to think of it, it would just be better to stick one’s self into the refrigerator and stay there for a couple of hours.

I remember lying in bed one afternoon and staring at the ceiling, doing nothing but watch a spider diligently working on its web.

Since my room in the city faces directly the sun in the afternoon, it comes to no surprise that the room is sweltering (even the air that the electric fan provided was warm). The sight of a spider web reminded me that it was time to clean the room–yet again. But because of the extreme heat, normal body functions were temporarily turned off.

After watching the spider complete its web for what seemed like centuries, the spider slowly climbed out the window, off to God knows where.

I fell unconscious soon thereafter, tired of watching a spider work.

I woke up hours later, when it was relatively dark and conditions already have cooled down. I checked the web, to see if the spider came back.

It never did.

That poor thing must’ve burned to death under the heat of the sun.

Easter bunny and eggs

2007-04-02T01:58:00.000-07:00

AS A KID, I adored rabbits. I worshipped Bugs Bunny, ate raw carrots, owned a mountain of rabbit stuffed toys, bought countless rabbit stickers and talked my parents into buying me my own living, breathing Bugs Bunny.

Easter, therefore, was one of my favorite holidays.

I loved the mystery of the Easter Bunny. At that time, it was rather confusing-was it the rabbit who would lay the brightly colored eggs? But then again, that was scientifically impossible. Or did the bunny pair up with a giant chicken who would lay the Easter eggs?

Either way, it never really mattered who produced the eggs, but what was really important was finding these colorful treats.

I remember waking up on Easter Sundays without much refusal and the customary “five more minutes.” Dressed in mismatched sleepwear, I’d run around our old apartment trying to find the hidden treats that the “Easter Bunny” lovingly placed in tiny baskets filled with synthetic grass.

Treats like colorful hard-boiled eggs, egg-shaped candies, chocolate Easter Bunnies and stuffed toys are what I would usually find (not the healthiest breakfast, I know).

As I think about it (and as you remember your own Easter experiences), it is childhood memories like this that make me want to become a child again. To wake up on Easter Sunday and wonder what the Easter Bunny has left me-would I find another stuffed toy or would there be more chocolate and candies this year?

Ah, the wonders of a child’s mind.

The Easter Bunny never really did last long, though. I soon discovered that the Easter Bunny was my mother, who would wake up in the wee hours of the morning and diligently hide the treats all over our apartment.

Nevertheless, believing in the Easter Bunny (or in Santa Clause for that matter) was fun while it lasted, although it was rather disheartening to find out that a life-sized “bunny-wabbit” did not exist.

When we moved to the Philippines, I tried to bring the tradition of Easter egg hunting with us. It lasted for a few years, until that fateful year when we forgot how many eggs we hid in our house.

All of you should know that once an egg rots, it stinks big time. Apparently, we failed to find one egg, which was hidden behind a desk.

After a few days, finding it wasn’t really that difficult.

We stopped the whole egg hunting tradition after that smelly fiasco, and have since preferred a subtler and less stinky Easter celebration.

May your Easter be a happy one, and please do count your eggs before hiding them.

The March Hype

2007-03-26T00:56:00.000-07:00

MARCH usually means three things to every young adult: the dreaded finals– which entails cramming sessions, accomplishing final requirements, clearances and projects; the onset summer vacation–which creates a huge hype among the youth, spending way too much on beach stuff (i.e. Speedos!) and daydreaming of the beach while in class; and every senior’s favorite–graduation, which on one hand means liberation from the clutches of academics and on the other hand, means stepping into the corporate world and earning your own money.

March certainly is a busy month.

To many, March means the end of one stressful school year. It symbolizes the end of the piles of homework, projects and clearances. It certainly means the end of teachers following you everywhere, professors breathing down your neck and classmates harassing you about the group project. To others, it means the beginning of the so called “real world”, where they swap their school uniforms and school bags for carry-on cases and corporate attires. The ceremonial receiving of the diploma also means picking up the classified ads and looking for a job.

This year, another batch of fresh graduates joins the list of the employed and unemployed. Lucky are those who graduate with jobs already waiting outside the school gates. The pressure is now on for those grads who have yet to find a job.

Finding the right kind of job these days can be tough. It’s even more difficult trying to find a job that’s in the line of one’s degree. One has to get lucky to actually land a job that’s somewhat related the degree he or she has earned.

Graduating is a rather big step for anybody, I think. Even more so when one graduates from college. It’s certainly more than just finishing school and becoming a degree holder.

It’s about getting a job and earning a living. It’s about independence and responsibilities.

Ultimately, it’s about growing up, and (gasp!) becoming an adult.

Help me; I think I just had an aneurism.

March certainly brings us a lot of things. And when you thought that December was a heavy holiday, think again! Behind all the fun and games, sunscreen, tanned boys and girls and diplomas, there’s a deeper side to March!

As seniors all over the nation graduate and free themselves from the bony clutches of academics and fire-breathing professors, they deserve a round of applause for having survived all those years in the educational system.

Congratulations to all the graduates and happy job hunting!

Clean-up

2007-03-19T05:15:00.000-07:00

MY ROOM is a fire hazard. It would not be a surprise if everything in my room would just spontaneously combust one summer’s day and everything will go up in flames.

I sound like a pyromaniac.

On top of my clothes cabinet, a stack of boxes and newspapers can be found (and gathering dust). Underneath my rickety study table, I have yet another pile of newspapers steadily growing. In another corner, I have a steadily growing pile of handouts and photocopies (mostly journalism, literature and advertising photocopies.) And I own a cramped bookshelf.

Now, throw in a match and everything will go up in flames.

As chaotic as my room may seem, I promise you that it isn’t that bad. It’s more of an “organized chaos” than chaotic in general.

I’m sure a lot of teenagers will agree with me here.

I’ve been trying to clean up my room for some time now. But with school keeping me busy, the only time I come home is for sleep, a bath and to change my clothes (in that order).

Before things got extremely busy with school, my room was fairly organized. Everything was where it was supposed to be. But once school started keeping me on my feet 20 hours a day, there was hardly time to organize and keep the room clean.

Now I live in a fire hazard zone and I have dust bunnies under my bed.

I’ve been trying to find time to clean my room. It’s astonishing that I simply cannot find time to pick up a broom and start cleaning. But then again, I don’t own a broom, so, perhaps that was just it. Just to let you know, the broom in our boarding house mysteriously disappears once in a while.

It’s rather funny. I used to think I’m well equipped with cleaning materials. I got cockroach repellant for roach invasions, fly paper, rags, detergent and the whatnots. Yet I do not own a broom. How embarrassing.

One night, I was contemplating over my room’s doomed future while waiting for my interviewee to arrive. I sat by a roadside café and all of the sudden a peddler walked by carrying a bundle of brooms on his back.

Ladies and gentlemen, I knew that that was a sign. God has spoken, I just knew it.

But God sure knew how to keep His conversations short.

My source arrived and as we exchanged greetings, my room’s salvation walked down the street, brooms still on his back.

It’s ok, I consoled myself. I had to think of it this way, had I bought the broom, I would have looked like a total idiot carrying a broom around while conducting the interview.

Bottom line boys and girls, clean your room. Don’t wait for dust bunnies to grow and your room to catch fire. And don’t wait for the roadside broom man to sell you his brooms–he walks fast.

Shopping Bug

2007-03-12T05:14:00.000-07:00

I never really understand why a large chunk of the female population loves shoes and shoe shopping (and well, shopping in general). Don’t get me wrong, I love a good pair of shoes and shopping can be fun sometimes but when I hear somebody talk about their extensive shoe collection (and by that I mean, owning 40 pairs of shoes which are organized alphabetically), I can only gape.

Why so many pairs?

“You need one for every occasion, for every bag, for every shirt, blah, blah,” my friend goes on and on. As she lectures me on fashion 101 (I’d like to think, however, that I am not a fashion disaster), my ears become numb.

I have never been much of a “shoe girl”. I’m more of an accessories, bags and funky tops type of girl–if that’s how you define them anyway. Shoe shopping for me is perhaps the most tiring. I don’t have the “perfect” feet that would fit in practically every type of shoes. But then again, I might just be really unlucky and the pair that I’m looking for is always unavailable.

Mind you, I do love a good pair of heels, or as others call them: stilettos (if they fit!). But they are an obvious health risk, since I’m no expert in walking in these death contraptions (expect me to trip all over the place in them), not to mention the back pains they cause. Ah, the pains of being a woman.

I go crazy over accessories. My friends say that I might as well stop eating, and just spend my savings on necklaces and bracelets I find in the streets of Colon. I admit that I’m a rather compulsive buyer when it comes to accessories. But of course, they have to be reasonably priced. If I were not just a little bit rational when shopping, I might as well start getting used to the idea of eating air.

The way I spend on books has not been much of a secret. I spend way too much on them. My bookshelf is already piled with books to the point that it is already difficult to pull one out without triggering a book avalanche (a classmate pulled a book out, she got hit square in the face by Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart).

I believe it is naturally a part of any woman’s genetics to have the itching need to shop, whether for beauty purposes, fun and entertainment or perhaps for nerdy reasons.

Ah yes, women are programmed to shop.

Speaking of celebrations and womanhood, the month of March is officially Women’s Month. So ladies, this is our month and let’s be proud of being a woman! See you at the malls!

Radio

2007-03-05T05:12:00.000-08:00

I've learned to love the old AM/FM radio again.

In the age where technology has taken over practically everything, we have teens sporting IPods, MP3 players and MP4 players of all sorts, shapes, colors and sizes. And our good, old (and extremely bulky) radio is left in the corner.

What a sad ending for something we grew up with.

The player that I have with me still comes from my elementary days. Grade five specifically. I remember when cassette tapes were still the hottest thing, and everyone had to own a cassette player or a walkman.

Back in grade school, we did a lot of dancing, doing intermission numbers and joining contests (losing in most of them). Since we were all young and obviously had no idea how badly we danced, the demand for owning a cassette player was high. After all, we had to practice.

So, a few dancing comrades and I bought players (at the expense of our parents of course). The players, by the way, all looked the same.

Needless to say, our dancing still did not improve.

My black cassette player will soon turn 10 years old. And within the span of 10 years, it has been used and abused (and maltreated), although I share a lot of happy memories with it.

I remember my Backstreet Boys days. Like every fan girl, I danced to the beat of "Get down" and squealed at the sight of Nick and AJ. I still own boy band tapes, as embarrassing as it sounds. And sometimes, I still find myself humming a boy band tune.

I have never been one to follow trends. So when people started buying CDs instead of cassette tapes and began using the CD player, I stuck with my trusty old cassette player. To this day, I still don't own a CD player.

My cassette player no longer plays tapes. I only use it for its radio functions, listening to AM news stations and radio dramas (yes, I've started to like them-thanks to my college major) and FM music stations, even if my music is limited to oldies songs. I love music from the '60s and '70s.

I have never been tech crazy. MP3 players don't amaze me and Discmans are not of my interest. I listen to music on my laptop, or on the radio. Besides, I can't afford an MP3 player. It's too impractical anyway.

It's a good thing I still own my cassette player. The music I get may not be crisp and clear, and I get talky DJs and annoying advertisements (and not to mention, nauseating campaign jingles) but nothing really beats listening to the radio and remembering the yesteryears.

Now, how about you start tuning your own radio and start appreciating something from the "past?"

Voiceless

2007-02-26T22:35:00.000-08:00

I USED to think that being hoarse is totally cool. There’s nothing better than having a really gruff voice especially when your normal voice is similar to a mouse’s squeak. Imagine how much you’ll surprise others with your husky, not-you voice.

“What’s with the voice?” people would ask.

“Had a concert,” you’d respond–the most common (and overused) answer. Of course when I answer that, people just laugh at me. They know I can’t keep a tune, let alone actually sing anything without butchering the lyrics.

After intramurals, you’d meet a lot of people whose voices have turned into faint and husky whispers. These are the people who are usually filled with team spirit, scream their hearts out and drink a lot of cold water.

I never got hoarse after intramurals. Maybe because I’m not usually the one who’s into screaming at the sidelines, jumping up and down with my pom-poms. But then again, my sport of choice for the past three years has been Scrabble, and screaming is not allowed in the Scrabble area (I hate to imagine screaming scrabble players, throwing around scrabble tiles in rage and screaming angrily at the referees).

The idea of having close to no voice at all seemed appealing to me (having no voice would be a plus). With my usual voice strangely high, yet sometimes soft (and still raging) pitch, I’d love to have something lower and huskier, even just for one day. Call me strange, but a day of "huskiness" is all I ever asked.

I got what I wanted a week ago. I sounded like a squished rat, or somewhat like a teenage boy undergoing puberty. Some said that I sounded like a cow being flattened by a bulldozer (I have no idea where that analogy came from). Perhaps, at one point, I had no voice at all.

The whole hoarseness ordeal all came naturally. No screaming and singing were involved–just the flu and asthma (again, I’m an extremely sickly person, I might as well live in a bubble).

And let me tell you, there was nothing cool about sounding like a teenage boy.

They snicker. I admit, I sounded funny. I’d laugh at myself for sounding strange. But after getting made fun of for the nth time of the day, it just gets old.

They don’t understand you. It gets frustrating when people don’t understand you. In the end, you act like a total idiot and pantomime everything.

Nobody can hear you. This sucks. I spoke in a pitch that only dogs could hear. Nothing becomes more frustrating than not being heard or getting your point across. There’s always so much to talk about, yet there you are, with no voice.

Like I said, I used to like the idea of being hoarse.

Well, screw that.

I want to be heard. And so should you.

The Calling

2007-02-19T23:13:00.000-08:00

PEOPLE have been asking me why I have this huge purple bruise on my right leg. They take their time staring, trying to figure out what I did the past week in Manila.

Just to clear things, I did not get beaten up nor did I undergo any hazing ritual. Paddles and bats were not used to “swear me in.”

I got sworn in differently, that’s for sure.

I’m fresh from the Ayala Young Leaders Congress, held at the San Miguel Corporation-Management Training Center in Alfonso, Cavite (or as everybody else likes to call the area-Tagaytay), and I had the best time of my life.

Days have passed since the congress, but I still feel euphoric over the entire experience. This is one happy bubble that nobody can burst.

Being with 73 other student leaders, wonderful facilitators and the friendliest secretariat around, everybody just rubs off on you and everything you learn, see and hear you absorb like a sponge (the same goes for the overflowing food and beverages, you absorb those too, although they go to an entirely different part of your body).

I must confess, I dreamt of attending the congress since I was a tiny freshman in college. For me, it was a congress I would never qualify for but it was still worth a try to apply.

In the end, it pays to hold on to your dream.

Call me a crybaby and emotional basket case, but I still get teary-eyed when I remember the congress.

Imagine yourself, being with other student leaders with one vision. A vision to serve their fellowmen, the country and those in need. A vision of leading others even through challenging times by leading through example, by being an agent of change.

Just imagine, putting your life literally into the hands of others. Being lifted and carried around, falling into their open arms and balancing yourself on a wire with nothing to hold on to but your partner.

There we were, sharing our dreams and vision, mulling over community and school problems and trying to figure out solutions.

I can never put to words how I feel about the congress. I missed my classes and thesis sessions, my tear glands are rendered temporarily dried up and useless, and my body is bruised and sore all over. But it was all worth it.

This may sound so cliché, but I feel inspired-by the people, the insights and by the activities. If this were a movie, the sky would have conveniently opened up and a divine light would have shone upon me.

I have found my calling. It’s time you find yours.

Cupid

2007-02-12T11:27:00.000-08:00

Cupid should be ashamed of himself. After years of shooting people with his arrows of love, he has yet to get a decent set of clothes. And that goes also for his posse of scantily clad cherubs.

You’d think that after years of being in the love business, he’d get something better to wear than that piece of cloth loosely hung around his chubby waist.

But then again we are talking about Cupid, he’s practically an institution; he has established for himself a name in the whole ‘love’ business. So whatever he wears is acceptable.

However, I hate to imagine that there are actually Cupid costumes floating around in the market. After all, there’s a Santa costume and a Easter bunny costume, so perhaps there might be a Cupid costume too. But that would be frightening, seeing a man in a diaper with bow and arrows strapped to his back.

This therefore calls a need to have Cupid change his image. It would be great to see something else on the toddler than a piece of white cloth around his behind.

We need a more modern, more hip Cupid. He has to keep up with style and what’s in. The loin cloth was so last century.

He and his army of flying babies need to think beyond the white cloth. Think of jeans, shirts or suits even!

Imagine a Cupid wearing a power suit! And inside the briefcase he carries around would be his bow and arrow. The more professional Cupid keeps a secretary at his side, who’ll keep track of the people he will ‘shot’ and his appointments for the day. Let’s not forget the PDA and his mobile phone; no professional matchmaker should leave the ‘office’ (or is it called ‘Love Central’?) without these gadgets.

Though not the most perfect imagine of Cupid, he might also opt going hip-hop. This might be hilarious with the oversized jeans and shirt and ‘bling-bling’. However, it would be fun to see the pimped bow and arrows. Instead of the usual pink/red heart tipped arrows, Cupid goes around showing off his diamond encrusted arrows of love.

A hippy Cupid (though out-of-date) might actually be interesting. With extremely long hair, oversized colorful clothes and humongous colored shades, he’d not only be spreading love but peace as well. You know what they say, “Love and peace, dude!”

Cupid as a Goth or as an ‘Emo’ kid would not be the brightest idea. Though rather fascinating and a bit odd, I highly doubt that our young little Cupid would go with the whole wearing black and being depressed thing. And I don’t think that he’s keen about wearing black eyeliner.

Business, Hip-hop, Hippy or Emo, whatever the image Cupid will always remain Cupid. Change him as we want, he’ll always be the ageless, scantly clad baby on Hallmark cards.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone, may you be struck by Cupid’s arrows (diamond encrusted or not).

Flushed

2007-02-05T12:01:00.000-08:00

My biggest fear, besides clowns, is a dirty bathroom. When I encounter a bathroom that smells and is filthy beyond belief, I am on the verge of tears. Not because of the horrid state of the bathroom, because of the fact I have to ‘go’ and there is no where else to ‘go’ to.

I remember a parent who complained to me about the comfort rooms of a school down north. The comfort rooms did not only reek but they were dirty with grime, mud and, well, the unmentionables – if you get my drift.

It’s enough to make anybody hold it in for another hour or so.

He complained that his son and the other students would not go to the bathroom because of the stench and the dirt. He blames the school for not keeping the bathroom clean.

As I think about it, both are to be blamed – the students and the school.

Sure, it’s the school that is obliged to provide clean facilities, especially an immaculately clean bathroom. After all, it’s all about hygiene. If I were a parent, the last thing I would do was to enroll my child in a school which had a bathroom that equals to a sewer.

But then again, aren’t kids these days taught of hygiene? If so, kids should know how to flush after, well, doing it. How physically demanding is it to push the silver button or pick up the pail and flush whatever is floating around in the toilet?

This reminds me of an instance when I was still in grade school. I refused to go to the bathroom because I did not like the bathrooms at school. Not to say that they were dirty, but because they were new to me. I grew up with toilets that would flush – you push the button and everything goes down the toilet. The concept of dumping water into the toilet bowl was new to me.

In the end, I nearly got kidney stones because of my stubbornness.

I’m the most picky when it comes to bathrooms. If the bathroom is dirty, the last thing I want to do is use it – no matter how badly I need to go. Most of the bathrooms I have encountered smell to high heavens and are dirty beyond belief. This does not only go for schools, but also for malls, restaurants, and doctors’ clinics and hospitals.

Why most of us don’t bother taking better care of our bathrooms is beyond me. For crying out loud, you take a bath there, brush your teeth, do your ‘business’ there and freshen up there.

Why on earth people tolerate bathrooms that are smelly and dirty does not seem logical to me. Perhaps their sense of smell must have burned out. The toxic smell of the toilets must have busted their senses.

If people these days are really that lazy of flushing and cleaning the bathroom, there is only one simple solution. Get a toilet that flushes on its own – and for sure, your problems will go down the drain, so to speak.

Fun

2007-01-29T11:15:00.000-08:00

“I watch plants grow,” I said to my friends when they asked me what I did for fun. All I got were blank stares. I really couldn’t expect more.

Call me weird, but watching vegetation grow is my idea of fun. It’s much better than going to bars, listening to deafening music and getting drunk to the point where your brain stops responding.

I don’t get the point of going to a cramped bar, with too many sleazy people and risk getting stabbed, robbed, drugged or trapped in a fire. If dancing with people you don’t even know on a sticky dance floor and in a smoke filled room is your idea of fun, then so be it. Don’t let me stop you, go on and frolic in the land of bars, bouncers and drunken people.

I have never been a fan of parties. I get uncomfortable with too many people around me, especially in a cramped place with no fire exit or real exits to speak off (unless you count the whole you crawled into).

Socializing has never been my best ability. I’m not, as they put it, a “social butterfly”. Perhaps I’m a moth.

At social gatherings, I crawl into a corner and nibble on hors d’oeuvre. The most meaningful conversation I might hold would be with waiters distributing fermented grape juice and tiny cheese balls on toothpicks.

I have more fun with small groups than with groups of 50 or more. One of the reasons may be because I easily forget the names (and faces) of the 40 other people I meet at gatherings. However, wearing nametags help.

Aside from watching plants grow, counting rain clouds and the cracks on the pavement, I do enjoy going out for karaoke. Then again, who doesn’t love karaoke? Virtually every Filipino loves music, no matter what genre or who the singer is.

I’m a highly incompetent singer. I cannot sing to save my life – but that doesn’t stop me (or any other vocally inept person for that matter) from belting tunes off-key.

We all have our own ideas of fun. Give me a spot on the beach, a good view of the sea (and perhaps, a good view of a beach hunk) and a good book; and for sure I’ll have the time of my life. Where I enjoy the beach and watching plants grow, others go to bars and dance to loud music (and get totally wasted).

It varies from person to person. Don’t mind me as I crawl under the table at social gatherings and talk to the dust bunnies down there. That’s my kind of socialization.

Speaking of fun and having a good time, the ‘Zup crew met up last Wednesday for the section’s anniversary. Everybody had a great time, especially finally putting faces to the names we always see on print. It was all smiles and laughter over ‘grand slam’ pizzas, humongous chocolate chunks and pitchers of iced tea. To another great year!

Eureka

2007-01-22T11:34:00.000-08:00

I’m beginning to think that ‘Eureka moments’ are just a scam. I have yet to hear some sane person scream ‘eureka!’ (note exclamation mark) all of the sudden without any rhyme or reason.

Did Einstein shout eureka when he came up with his theory of relativity? Did a light bulb appear conveniently light up above Thomas Alva Edison’s head when he came across electric lighting? Or did something ring up there when Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone?

Come to think of it, I have this sinking feeling that eureka moments are just another government and corporate plot to make us all think really hard (or at the very least, try to think) until something useful pops up. When eventually something does pop up (which we will assume is something really amazing and is of equal standing of Einstein’s e=mc² formula) the thinker actually screams ‘eureka!’ and the government and corporate bigwigs will fly into the room and try to buy off the idea.

But, this has yet to happen, so this thus far is another add-on to my list of assumed reasons and speculations of things unexplained (which are of farfetched-nature-yet-so-farfetched-that-they-might-strangely-be-true).

The only time I actually heard somebody shout ‘eureka!’ (with exclamation mark and matching hand gesture of pointing up at the ceiling and jumping out of his seat) was on television. It was a character from the show ‘Angel’ (a show about an extremely good-looking vampire with a soul ironically named Angel) and he was English, so perhaps that explained the ‘eureka!’ exclamation.

But, wouldn’t it great if people actually did go around shouting ‘eureka!’ whenever some idea pops into their heads? Ideas don’t have to be groundbreaking, or world-changing, for all we know, they might be the answers to last year’s tough physics question over which you have been mulling over for months.

I have yet to shout ‘eureka!’ though – not because I am short of brilliant ideas (I’m a self-proclaimed genius, though I know others beg to differ) – but because I kept forgetting the word existed (to me, it’s archaic).

I hit my head against the window of a tour bus bound for a posh hotel. It hurt pretty badly and I was sure it left a painful lump. However, somewhere while my head connected with the Plexiglas and the pain registered in my brain, I believe I had an idea forming in my already muddled mind (something to do with our thesis and my article assignment for class). In the end, I forgot the so-called brilliant ideas and shouting ‘eureka!’, all that came out of my mouth was: “Ouch”.

Sinulog '07

2007-01-15T11:56:00.000-08:00

Last week’s Association of Southeast Asian Nations (ASEAN) summit has been exciting and the talk of the town for several months, and now with that finally behind us, we eagerly await yet another big activity that we have come to know and love every year: Sinulog.

Sinulog is definitely in the air. One can practically hear the familiar beat of the Sinulog in the air, reverberating all around. And you bet, as the day draws nearer, the beat just gets louder beckoning you join in on the fun.

With Sinulog 2007’s official kick off last January 12, one can be assured that every day and night until the Sinulog Grand Parade on the 21^st will be fun filled and totally worth remembering.

Cultural Shows, street parties, firework displays, the grand parade these, are just of the few things one can enjoy during Sinulog. But hey, it’s not only these events that make Sinulog extra special, there are a lot of other things one can do during Sinulog which are worth remembering and sharing to your friends once classes resume.

Walk great distances. As if partying and dancing is not enough for your feet, you have to walk great distances during Sinulog. Imagine walking the entire carousel route, now that would be something worth bragging about. Nothing’s better than walking the route at night, after the grand parade because you’ll just end up anywhere where the beat of the music takes you in search for a party and good time.

Food consumption a.k.a. the Pit stops. While walking for great distances, it can’t be denied that your body would need nourishment. It’ll be easy for you to find stalls selling great tasting food that would fill your stomach and keep you going at very affordable prices.

Photo Opportunities. While walking the entire carousel lane, be sure to take lots of pictures. It’s not everyday you would find people dancing on the streets, floats gliding down the road and higantes and puppets slowly walking down the streets.

The hennas, the t-shirts and the hankies. Buy souvenirs. It’s a must to buy a souvenir every year. Get yourself a shirt and a henna tattoo, after all, Sinulog 2007 only happens once a year and what better way to remember such memorable year than by buying a remembrance and keeping it forever.

Remember that Sinulog is all about having fun and letting loose. It’s the most awaited event of the year and just keeps on getting better and better. Get your walking shoes ready, prepare your camera and pack a lot of water because you’ll need it. Sinulog 2007 is definitely here and it’s time to have some fun. I’ll see you on the streets!

New Year

2007-01-01T11:47:00.000-08:00

With a colorful display of fireworks, we ring in the year 2007 with, hopefully, all limbs still attached to our body.

New Year’s traditions fascinate me, since there is nothing more life threatening than New Year’s Day (not because of the yearly rumors of the world ending at exactly 12 midnight) and the ceremonious lighting of manipulated explosives that could spontaneously combust right in your face.

Yes, this is what makes New Year’s extra special: putting your limbs on the line for the age-old tradition of watching pretty lights in the sky for 5 seconds.

I have never been fond of fireworks. When I was around 7-years-old, a roman candle blew up centimeters from my face, temporarily blinding me. From that moment on, I knew I had enough with pyrotechnics (in any kind or form).

It’s beyond me why people bother spending so much on something that has a lifespan of 30 seconds (more than a minute, for those really expensive and really humongous firecrackers). After a few ‘kaboom’s and a pretty light show, one’s money will be literally reduced to ashes.

With the thousands of pesos some people spend on fireworks, I’d be much better they would spend the money on something that actually lasts longer than 30 seconds.

Wouldn’t it be a more meaningful New Year if you donate to a charity or give to the poor? Come to think of it, it wouldn’t hurt one bit, unless of course you are a masochist and enjoy pain and would love to have your fingers amputated.

The thought of buying more food isn’t such a bad idea either. Instead of incinerating your money and losing your body parts, stuff yourself with mountains of food. Sure, you are worried about the holiday weight you might be gaining, but think of it this way, it’s better to gain weight than to lose an arm.

I know that this advice is pretty much useless right now, since obviously it is well past midnight. For sure, hundreds of people have bought fireworks and have lost a finger here and there.

In that case, consider this column as an advisory for next year. One cannot be too prepared for New Year’s Day (2008 would be so much better if one still had all 10 fingers in tact, right?).

With 10 fingers or without 10 fingers (or other limbs for that matter), we have a lot to be thankful for (aside of still having all body parts in tact). Apart from blowing up things, we should take time and reflect on the year that was.

Nothing is better than remembering all the mistakes, ups and downs, bloopers and funny moments you had in 2006 and wondering how your life will be this year.

Happy New Year everyone!

‘Xed’-mas List

2006-12-18T12:02:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-11T11:49:00.000-08:00

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

2006-12-04T11:35:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-27T11:13:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-20T11:43:00.000-08:00

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

2006-11-13T11:36:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-30T19:09:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-23T11:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-09T11:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-25T11:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-18T11:45:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-11T18:43:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-04T11:27:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-08-21T11:26:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-14T11:51:00.000-07:00

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

2006-08-07T11:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-31T11:29:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-24T18:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-17T18:49:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-10T19:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-07-03T18:59:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-26T18:58:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-19T18:56:00.000-07:00

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

2006-06-12T18:55:00.000-07:00

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.