Homecoming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about suffering of identity crisis.

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

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

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

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

Intrams Advisory

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

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

Talk about sucking the fun out of intramurals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To hell with winning.

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

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

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

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

At the movies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misspelled Names Movement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jumping Off

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

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

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

No, I didn’t lead a deprived childhood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Piglet, what are you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rainy Days

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did I do?

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

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

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