Halloween

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Break

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bag battle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homecoming

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about suffering of identity crisis.

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

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

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

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

Intrams Advisory

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

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

Talk about sucking the fun out of intramurals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To hell with winning.

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

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

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

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

At the movies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misspelled Names Movement

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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