Because "verbaldoodling" was Taken

Moved to Wordpress!

2010-12-01T13:20:00.000-08:00

Hello, extremely small percentage of the world's people who read this blog. I've moved to Wordpress because, honestly, posting pictures is a bitch on Blogger. Read this entry on my new blog, worddoodling.wordpress.com, to see why that's important. I admit, I'll miss the grammatically-correct hyphen at the url of this blog. Stupid Wordpress allowing only letters and numbers in urls.

I've copied most of the entries here to the new site, with the exception of the very personal (read: emo) ones. I know it's silly pretending that makes them more private, but I'm a pretty silly fellow to begin with. All new entries will be posted there, too, so forget about this one.

Oh, and just because I'm proud of it, here's the header I drew for the new blog:

See how I kept the general theme of "Skinny Dork Fights Zombies with a Giant Pencil"? That's called brand consistency. If I were a brand, that is.

Anyhoots, that's all there is to this chapter of my life! See you at the new one!

The High School Girl Syndrome; or, Haters Gonna Hate

2010-11-17T22:46:00.000-08:00

***NOTE: This is going start off sounding like a rant, but there's some actual helpful advice in it. I'm just sharing what I've learned from experience. You might learn something, too, or at least affirm what you already know.***

Two days ago, I came across a commentary on antipinoy.com. I didn't agree with the views on it, but that's what the site is for – presenting the unpopular opinion. I don't have a problem with that; in fact, I very much appreciate it. I stated more than once on my reaction piece that it's important to open one's mind to opinions that deviate from the norm, and those that directly oppose yours. We can all learn something from those who think differently, even if we don't necessarily agree with them.

My reaction to the post in question was constructed this way:

1. I explained that I don't have an issue with opinions that oppose mine.

2. I illustrated that fact by elaborating the difference between my opinion and the post author's.

3. After each difference, I showed that both opinions, though opposing, are valid given our own perspectives (although I could only assume the other person's stance).

4. I then explained that I had no qualms about the opinions, because, quite frankly, people will feel what they feel.

5. I elaborated on what DID irk me about the post, and that was the amount of logical fallacies and lack of recommendations within.

6. I went back to saying the importance of antipinoy's (and that of similar sites) role, and saying how posts like the one in question mar that task.

7. I ended by giving recommendations on what antipinoy should present in every single one of their posts; namely, logic, a lack of bias, and recommendations for improvement. After all, if the site is meant to improve the quality of Filipino life/culture/politics/intellect, it should do more than say what's wrong with us.

That sounds extremely fair in my mind. I'm not sure if it does to you, so please tell me in the comments if it doesn't. After all, I'm not going to critique anything or anyone if I don't open myself to some criticism.

That said, I have learned one important thing about the Internet: some readers are bound to act like typical high school girls.

I'm still a noob at this blogging thing, so forgive me if what you're about to read seems like common sense to you. To me, it's still a valuable lesson that I will need to refer to every time someone comments a particular way on my blog. That's the main reason I'm writing this down. I will be honest, however, and admit this is also my way of snarking back at a few pet peeves.

Anyhoots, back to the topic – some people on the Internet are going to act like high school girls. More specifically, the type we saw in Regina's gang in Mean Girls. Here's how:

1. They're Going to Remain Anonymous
You know how, when high school girls get caught for something, they try to shrug off responsibility by saying "It wasn't me?" That way, they won't be punished if the act was negative. If it turns out that they're going to be rewarded, however, they'll suddenly dissolve that anonymity and scream at the top of their lungs, "IT WAS ME LOVE MEEEEEEEE!!!"

They could also be hiding in anonymity to, as Kiko put it, create the illusion of strength in numbers. This is like that catty bitch in high school who hates you and tells you everyone hates you, even though everyone thinks you're pretty okay.

Some – not all – anonymous commenters are like that. They hide in anonymity because they don't have the conviction in their opinions to be responsible for them regardless of the outcome. They don't want to be called out for being wrong, but will show off to their friends when they feel they're right. They'll also stay anonymous to make it seem like everyone shares their opinion because, to paraphrase a certain image forum, Anon is Legion.

2. They'll Miss the Point
Try telling the Reginas of the world that dressing up in Juicy Couture sweatpants and pink boleros makes for a trashy aesthetic, and that something more elegant will enhance their good looks. Chances are they'll do one of two things: 1) Call you an "unfashionable loserrrr"; or 2) Completely gloss over the entirety of your statement and bitchslap you for calling them trashy. Never mind that you directed your opinion towards the clothes, or that you actually complimented them and gave a suggestion on how to emphasize what's good about them.

I got both reactions for my post. One reader said I didn't get the point of the articles on antipinoy, like I wouldn't get the point of those Juicy Couture sweatpants. Another missed the point completely and made my post about feeling national pride and how sports won't make the country better. Again, my issue with the post, and I explained this repeatedly to the commenters, was in the construction. I couldn't care less about the difference in opinions because, as I said, people will feel what they feel. That commenter seemed to ignore the fact that I acknowledged the difference – even appreciated it – and went for the throat.

3. They'll Resort to Non-Sequiturs
Never, ever criticize a catty high school girl. No matter how intelligently you'll try to make your point, they'll bring something completely unrelated into the picture. A few examples:

You: You know, the amount of hairspray you put in your bumpit releases a lot of aerosols, which in turn damage the ozone layer. Using gel might be a safer alternative.
Regina: Well, your face is ugly. *twirl gum*

You: You could really improve your grades if you shifted some of the time you spent on shopping to your studies.
Regina: You just jealiz 'coz you ain't got this heat. *smacks own ass*

You: You should seriously consider cutting down on the alcohol. Not only do you make a spectacle of yourself when you're drunk, you're causing serious damage to your liver, too.
Regina: Boy, you should bite a breath mint before you talk. *snap snap*

The commenters on my post about the construction of a single antipinoy entry somehow saw fit to bring Noynoy and the August 23 hostage crisis into the picture. Go figure.

4. They'll Make It Personal
As illustrated above, some commenters will find some way to make comments about you, even if you do your damned hardest to direct the discussion into a certain topic. Hairspray use becomes your face, studying becomes how less attractive you are in comparison, and alcohol abuse is relegated to how your breath smells. In the same vein, telling a Mean Girl that you disagree with her about the church's stance on the RH Bill will suddenly turn into a discussion on how you're stupid and a bad Christian.

A couple of commenters made things personal in two ways. One defended not feeling any pride when Pacquaio won, even though I said there was nothing wrong with that, and it wasn't the point of my post. Another called me narrow-minded, regardless of me being so accepting of the opposing view. Again, go figure.

5. All of the Above
Somehow, some people possess the magical power to combine all these things. Tell a particularly bitchy Regina that she could use a certain soap to take care of her tiny pimple, and you'll get a verbal smackdown like:

"Are you telling me I'm ugly, you fucking whore? Why don't you take a look at the mirror first, 'cause everyone thinks you're too fat to star in the talent show. By the way, you'll never get a prom date and your dad totally wants me." *twirl hair*

An anonymous commenter told me that I wasn't reading carefully, because the post I was remarking on was a comment from an antipinoy reader, not the site's writers; that I was accusing antipinoy of being counterproductive; and that the country should focus on scientific progress, rather than athletic achievement. Never mind that I took great lengths to limit as much of my criticism towards the post's construction, that I said posts like this one – not all of antipinoy's entries – were counterproductive, and that I never said anything about sports being important for a country's progress.

Given what I've experienced through the most action I've seen on my silly little blog, here's some helpful advice for other blogging noobs: expect the High School Girl Syndrome, if you ever get people to read your stuff. When you do, take it in stride. Leave them alone. Some people are just going to be like that; to try to change their attitudes is futile. In other words, haters gonna hate. Just don't ignore them completely – sometimes, the haters do say valid things. Be open to discourse, but know when it isn't going anywhere.

For my part, I'm taking my own advice. If Anon still continues with the High School Girl Syndrome, so be it. I've done everything I could to clarify my point with logic and conviction. I've defended my opinion by arguing against my own points, and feel that I still might be right. Of course, I'm not going to shut out Anon completely – he may have a point sometime in the future. And hey, if I can learn something from the post's actual author, you can, too. For now, though, I'm done with the matter. This is the last you'll hear of it from me, promise. I'll be back to spouting regular ramblings soon.

I'm tired.

Anti-antipinoy

2010-11-16T11:06:00.000-08:00

I'm very rarely affected by blog posts. I always approach them with the perspective that it's someone else's opinion, and the fact that it was published is not an affront to my sensibilities should I find myself disagreeing with it. In fact, I'm often appreciative for the disconnect, as it allows me to see things from a different perspective and gives me a better idea of the big picture.

An entry on antipinoy.com, however, has irked me a little.

It's not because the author seems to think the idea of pride through association doesn't exist. In the article, the author claims to not feel personally proud whenever Manny Pacquiao wins a big fight. The author feels proud for Pacquiao enjoying the fruits of his labor, but it doesn't make him/her proud to be a Filipino. It's was Pacquiao's effort, after all, and solely his.

Valid as this perspective may be, I find it hard to believe the author doesn't feel a quark of national pride when Pacquiao's fist is raised in victory. We always feel some semblance of personal pride when someone we associate with succeeds at something. It's why proud fathers go "That's my boy!" and why a school cheers for its varsity team. Pacquiao hits a particular nerve with the common Filipino – this is someone who rose from poverty to achieve international success. Like most Filipinos, he dropped out of school because his family couldn't afford it. He moved to Manila in search of better things, but found himself living on the streets. Had he not endured through adversity and pursued boxing, he never would've made the Philippine National Amateur Boxing Team, and never would've caught the eye of one Freddie Roach. He literally changed his poverty-stricken life, the life of the common Filipino, by working hard, persevering, and getting a little lucky.

When Filipinos feel proud when he wins, it's because he was one of us. He was every child you met on the streets, asking you for money. He was that doe-eyed dreamer who told us, every time he got drunk, that he was going to make it someday. He's the typical Pinoy who eats hotdogs with rice and sings far more than his talent should allow. That's why we associate with him, and that's why we go "That's our boy!!!" when he stands triumphant in the center of the ring.

I won't make any sweeping generalizations, though. Not every Filipino associates with Pacquiao, and I assume the author of the antipinoy post doesn't, either. I can see why he doesn't feel that personal pride during a big win. No qualms there.

My problem isn't even with the ridiculous assertion that associating ourselves with Pacquiao is a foolish thing to do, especially if we want to better ourselves as a nation. From the post:

And to associate ourselves with him is foolish thing to do. Discipline- Manny has it; our nation knows no law. Hard work- Manny has it;our nation is in a deep sea of mediocrity. Focus- Manny has it; our nation doesn’t know where to go, thanks to our president. Coaching- Manny has it; our nation didn’t listen when we educate them to vote intelligently and here’s our by-product:national shame. Training- Manny has it; our nation has it but it was only a loose cannon to them. Winning attitude- Manny has it; our nation has this attitude of being a loser and they are contented with it.

The number of logical fallacies is appalling. From exaggeration ("our nation knows no law"); to dramatic aggrandizing ("our nation is in a deep sea of mediocrity"); to biased assumption ("our nation doesn’t know where to go, thanks to our president"); to non-sequitur ("Coaching- Manny has it; our nation didn’t listen when we educate them to vote intelligently and here’s our by-product:national shame"); and further violations of those previously mentioned.

The most glaring fallacy, however, is the assumption that majority of the Filipino population is composed of hypocrites. The only way associating ourselves with discipline, hard work, focus, coaching, training, and a winning attitude could be foolish is if we were the opposite. You may call me naïve, but I'd like to think that CNN Heroes of the Year, mothers who get their families by on less than 100 pesos a day, and individuals who willingly spend lonely years working hundreds of miles away from their families to be breadwinners are lazy buffoons content with mediocrity. Even if we lacked these characteristics, seeing Pacquiao as a role model as described in the antipinoy article isn't foolish. It's actually quite commendable, as we recognize what we need to be better Filipinos.

I won't fall into the trap of sweeping generalizations myself, though. For all I know, I could be naïve, and majority of the Filipino population could be as rotten as the article implies. We could all be foolish for associating ourselves with such a hard worker. I'd prefer to keep my assumption that we're most likely a mix of the two, and that it isn't generally foolish to identify ourselves with Pacquiao. Again, no qualms – I don't really know if I'm necessarily more correct than the antipinoy author, or if I'm just kidding myself.

My real issue with the post is that is bears many characteristics of what we would call, in the vernacular, a "whiny bitch". I won't assume anything about the author, so the "whiny bitch" statement isn't directed towards him/her; it's directed towards the article itself. For all its complaints and criticisms of feeling proud for Pacquiao, its implied hypocrisy, and the sorry state of Philippine sports, it doesn't provide a solution; not even a ridiculous one. It's all just words put together to say "This all sucks".

There are no recommendations for any of the issues. In regard to the "illusion of pride", all the post offers is a rather condescending (in tone) reality check that illustrates the obvious fact that Pacquiao isn't going to be fighting forever. When he retires, the article asks, who are we going to use to hide our national dysfunction? I understand that this should be the impetus for readers to stand up and say "We will have no need to hide!", but saying it is much more effective than implying it. The article says the Philippines' national sports program sucks, but doesn't say what could make it better. Again, it's all implied, and the meaning is hidden within negative remarks.

The post, without a concrete message of empowerment, is akin to a bully who makes fun of you for being stupid. He's not helping you; he's crushing your self-esteem and instilling long-lasting psychological issues before you're actually spurred to action. This is assuming, of course, that you're actually spurred to action and don't end up just resigning to the fact that you're stupid because he says so. Bullying works both ways, and so do posts like this one. Not everyone is going to be defiant; some readers are going to accept that Filipinos are mediocre and they might as well live with it.

It's one thing to point out a nation's faults, but stopping there is disgustingly irresponsible. It bears a tone of hatefulness, of disdain for one's self. "Anti-Pinoy", indeed.

It's a shame, too, as unpopular opinions like the post's have an important place in the grand scheme of things. We all need to see things from as many perspectives as possible, as a nation or personally, if we are ever to improve ourselves and the situations at hand. I assume this is the reason for antipinoy.com's existence; if it isn't, it should be.

Because of this, antipinoy.com needs to do a few things better. It's got to make sure the logic is sound in each of its arguments, preferably backed up by solid facts. It also has to make it a point to offer concrete solutions in every post; as I explained, implying one simply isn't enough. Most importantly (and ironically) antipinoy needs a little more perspective in its posts. I understand the site is founded on personal opinions, but there's a line between conviction and bias – conviction is informed and cannot argue against itself. Complaining with conviction, even if it turns out to be in error, opens minds. Biased complaints close them.

I don't want another whiny bitch on the Internet.

Food Porn: Bubble Tea

2010-10-29T15:12:00.001-07:00

I wrote earlier that my latest adventure at Bubble Tea involved an avalanche of food. I wasn't kidding. After listing down my favorite items served that night, I was still left with 16 different dishes. It'd be a shame to let all that go to waste, so I decided to post pics and a quick review of each item. Read on to see what I thought of the rest of the feast.

WARNING: LOTS OF PICTURES AHEAD. IF YOU ARE USING A HORRIBLE INTERNET CONNECTION, YOU MAY WANT TO GO HELP SOMEONE CHANGE A FLAT TIRE FIRST.

The Stars

Throughout the earlier part of the night, Reagan and Aileen let us try the many different flavors of their signature bubble drinks. Even with servers zooming in and out of the kitchen, not all varieties made their way onto our taste buds. Here's what I thought of those that did make it:

Strawberry Milkshake: Like any good strawberry milkshake, but chewy.

Almond Milk Tea: Do you like almond jelly? Because this tastes exactly like it.

Azuki Red Bean: Okay, I'm getting more of that. It's exactly like red beans.

The Opening Salvo

The Tofu Steak had this amazing sauce that was sweetened by carrots, onions and mushrooms. The tofu itself was delightfully mushy, and a thin bread covering kept it together in between my chopsticks. A winner.

I didn't find the Spicy Tuna spicy enough. I suppose it's good for more casual diners who like their spice to add a tiny bite, rather than flaming-hot fury. The tuna itself had nice texture, like a very smooth tartare dish.

The Bubble Salad Sushi was clean-tasting, with a very slight crunch. I think it's better without soy sauce.

Main Events

At first, I found the pesto in the Tori Pesto Spaghetti a little too mild. I like my pesto sauces with oomph. When I took it together with the teriyaki chicken, however, I totally got it - the two blend very well. Bonus points for the crisp skin on the chicken.

Reagan was very proud of the Tonkatsu Omurice's omelette, saying it was perfectly cooked. I didn't get what he meant until I tried it. The egg was cooked on the outside, but wonderfully gooey inside. It looks like he knows how to time his omelettes. The tonkatsu was pretty good too; the pork was thick enough to enjoy, and the sauce was potent. The tomato-y rice didn't win me over immediately, but I grew to enjoy it.

Again, the Spicy Seafood Mix and Tomato Spaghetti wasn't quite hot enough for me. I did like that they were generous with the seafood, though.

The Chicken Teriyaki Doria is one of Bubble Tea's bestsellers, and it's easy to see why: teriyaki sauce and cheese make for an excellent pairing. I order this from time to time, but I always get the same impression that I'd prefer the dish served on mashed potatoes rather than rice.

I love curry, but I didn't really get enough sauce on the bit of Beef Stew Curry that I tried. Jury's out on this one for now.

Sweet Endings

Every time I think about this dessert, I'm reminded of this commercial. An Oreo Cheesecake is one of the brightest ideas ever conceived around Oreos, and Aileen's version is really generous with the cookies and cream. Order this if you love the cookie.

See that little bit of mango tucked inside the cheese filling? That's what I love about Bubble Tea's Mango Cheesecake - it's generous with the fruit. The cheesecake itself is very smooth and creamy, but not cloyingly so. I do wish it were a bit denser, though.

Lauren's Picks

The Matcha Green Tea and Cappuccino Cake is one of the reasons Lauren and I keep coming back to Bubble Tea. It's got this mocha-like richness to it, but it doesn't really overwhelm you. I could eat this all day and not get sick of its creamy goodness.

I've only really had Takoyaki at stalls, so I don't know what "legit" takoyaki is supposed to be like. I'd wager it's a lot like this, however, with its strong seafood flavor, savory sauce, and gooey texture.

People say Okonomiyaki is the Japanese version of a pizza, but the batter reminds me more of pancakes. In any case, this is a very meaty-tasting pancake, making it perfect for manly men, mustachioed biker gangs, and anybody who enjoys umami food.

Lauren insists that we get the Yakisoba on our next visit. These noodles have just the right amount of savoriness that they wake your taste buds up, but don't have you reaching for the water. The breaded prawns were a much-appreciated touch.

That about wraps it up! Head on over to Bubble Tea at SM North Edsa, SM Megamall, or Tomas Morato. Pretty soon, you'll be able to visit their upcoming branch at Wilson Street, Greenhills. Check out their Facebook page and feel free to join their Pichur Pichur contest, too - you may just be the lucky winner of a brand-new Nikon S230 camera.

Photos by Lauren.

Bubbles and Tea

2010-10-29T12:54:00.000-07:00

It's pretty cool when a couple works together well. Reagan and Aileen Tan, the founders of Bubble Tea, are a shining example of that. While Reagan works out the café's fun, quirky menu, Aileen brings a touch of sweetness to the meal with her pastries. Their culinary creations match each other perfectly, like their bubbles (chewy tapioca balls) and tea. It's a marriage made in heaven, especially for my taste buds.

They make a really cute couple on camera, too!

Lauren and I are avid fans of Bubble Tea. Their branch along Tomas Morato is one of our favorite haunts, both for the tantalizing tea drinks and the creative Japanese food. Being the creatures of habit we are, however, we tend to order the same things: a serving of Takoyaki (seafood balls) to start things off, the Aquarius sushi platter, and maybe some Chicken Teriyaki Doria, if I'm feeling famished that evening. Lauren often gets some Strawberry Milk Tea (with extra bubbles!), while I satisfy my sweet tooth with a Double Chocolate Milk Tea. We close out the meal with a delightful slice of Matcha Green Tea cake. It's pretty much the same thing over and over again, but we get the same items for a reason – we can't resist them.

It was high time that we tried out the other fun items on Bubble Tea's menu, and so we set off for the restaurant eager to explore some brand-new flavors. What we didn't expect, however, was the sheer amount of food that was going to be served that evening. Rather than bore you with a 10,000-word monstrosity about me stuffing myself, I've decided to highlight my favorite dishes of the night. You can check out the rest of the feast (along with quickie reviews) here. Read on for my top choices.

Things kicked off with an ample serving of sushi. If you've ever been to Bubble Tea, you'll know that they have some of the more creative rolls this side of the Pacific. Between the eye-catching presentation and the wonderful mélange of flavors, you'll probably find yourself coming back to Bubble Tea just for the sushi. Among the many different varieties served (I can count at least 4 from memory), my favorite definitely had to be the Dragon.

A thick chunk of prawn fills the center of the roll, and a sliver of unagi (eel) accentuates the seafood flavor. The sesame seeds sprinkled on top added a bit of smokiness. The entire roll is drizzled with teriyaki sauce and Japanese mayo. While the teriyaki sauce lends some savory sweetness to the rolls, the Japanese mayo adds a creamy texture that makes everything blend in your mouth just beautifully. Although it really isn't needed, I like dipping the rolls in some soy sauce to give the teriyaki sauce a little pop.

The Vancouver was a very, very close second. Like the Dragon, its main filling is breaded prawn, while teriyaki sauce is its chief accent. Instead of unagi, however, the Vancouver is topped with some spicy raw tuna, which adds a much-appreciated bite to the roll. I really enjoyed the combination, and rate it second to the Dragon only because I didn't find the tuna spicy enough. Of course, my tolerance for spice is a little high, so I'm guessing this dish has the perfect amount of mild heat for the average diner.

It looks like I forgot to copy a photo of the Vancouver from Lauren's camera, so
please enjoy this image of Bubble Tea's awesome lighting fixture instead. Hehe. :D

While we were enjoying the appetizers, our drink orders came in. Bubble Tea's concept is built around their beverages, as Reagan really wanted to bring back one of his favorite hang-outs from Canada: a café where you could enjoy your bubble tea and some food while lazily sitting around, instead of standing by the many kiosks we see in the Philippines. At Bubble Tea, you get to choose from a wide variety of green tea, milk tea, and milkshake flavors, each served with bubbles at the bottom. The end result is a titillating treat that goes incredibly well with the selection of Japanese food the café serves.

Pictured: Chewy, milky, drinky goodness.

With our adventurous mindset, Lauren and I decided to try two of the more interesting flavors being offered: Azuki Red Bean and Black Sesame. The Azuki Red Bean tasted exactly like the red beans I enjoy on top of some mochi (chewy rice cake) or green tea ice cream – sweet and somewhat chocolatey. The shake itself had a bit of a gritty texture which probably comes from the skins of the beans, but that's part of why I enjoyed it. The bubbles at the bottom did a fine job of substituting for mochi, making the drink a dessert in itself.

The Black Sesame shake, on the other hand, reminded me of another Asian dessert. It tasted like buchi (chewy sesame balls), but not quite so – the drink is topped with ice cream, which turns the flavor into a whole new concept. I quite enjoyed the taste of "buchi a la mode", but I'm afraid I'm too much of a chocoholic to have it replace my usual order. I'll definitely order this if I ever need a change of pace, though.

Apparently, my nostrils flare up when I am confronted by black sesame milkshakes.

We didn't get to try their new flavor, Honeydew Melon, which is a real shame because Reagan was really proud of it. Peter agreed that it was to die for. Maybe on our next visit?

A veritable avalanche of entrees came next. My personal stars of the night were the Yakiniku Beef Rice, the Japanese Fried Chicken in a Basket, and the Salmon Foil Yaki.

The Yakiniku Beef Rice had everything going for it. The cuts of meat were thin, soft, and flavorful, with just the right marbling of fat. The sauce was a sweet barbecue-like glaze, while the sesame seeds that topped the dish added a toasty taste that I very much enjoyed. Even rice was cooked to perfection, with a sprinkling of garlic flakes pulling everything together.

When I tried the Japanese Fried Chicken in a Basket, I learned one thing – these people know how to fry chicken. The very first thing you notice about fried chicken, the skin, had just about everything I was looking for: a crisp, flaky texture that isn't over-battered; a light seasoning that doesn't overpower the senses, but is just enough to keep your mouth watering; and a golden-brown appearance that just pulls you by the eyelashes and screams "Eat me!!!" When you finally sink your teeth into the meat, you're rewarded with this juicy explosion of chicken, an all-too satisfying bite of poultry that needs absolutely no rice.

The chicken was served with two sauces: the very same teriyaki glaze I loved all through the night, and a unique nori-ginger sauce. I do love my ginger sauces and enjoyed this one, but I couldn't help but wonder where the nori was. It certainly colored the sauce, but I think the ginger may have overpowered it.

The Salmon Foil Yaki came at a later portion of the meal, and I have to apologize right now for not taking a proper picture of it. There was just so much food to enjoy that I kind of got lost in the moment. I'll do this dish some justice on my next visit, though, and get a proper picture for this post. For now, here's a shot of its menu entry:

Honestly, I wasn't all too impressed when I first saw the Salmon Foil Yaki. By the time it arrived on the table, I had grown accustomed to the vivid colors that came with every dish. To my surprise, it ended up being one of my absolute favorite parts of the meal, so much so that it's going to be a guaranteed part of my next visit to Bubble Tea. The salmon is cooked just right – it was cooked just enough to feel meaty in the mouth, but still capture the flakiness that I love so much about fish. The fish was rested atop a bed of shiitake mushrooms, which added a lovely chewy texture and a sweetness that lingered in the mouth. I'd say it was a party in my mouth, but not the kind that involved kegs of beer and frat boys; this was a sophisticated party, where epicurean members of high society greeted each other with bows and curtsies. It was a classy, undeniably delicious dish.

We ended the meal with a sampling of Aileen's desserts. My favorite still ended up being the Matcha Green Tea Cake, but the two types of cheesecake served – mango and oreo – were also pretty good. The cheesecake was very smooth and creamy, and had the amount of tanginess that every cheesecake should had. It wasn't overpoweringly sweet, which is the case with many local restaurants. My one critique is that it's a fairly light cheesecake; I enjoy the thicker, denser type that makes you feel like you're engorging yourself with every mouthful. Of course, that type of cheesecake probably wouldn't mesh with the bubble tea, so I'd wager this kind's just right for the café. Aileen's pastries go so well with Reagan's dishes, I never really move on from Bubble Tea to another place for dessert, like I usually do. That's my kind of chemistry.

The desserts also go really well with striped dresses.

There was a lot more food served that evening, and I haven't even touched on Lauren's favorites. Needless to say, the meal reinforced the fact that Bubble Tea is one of our go-to places for dining. Its fun, youthful ambience and enjoyable menu items are worth every peso. The only difference now is that we'll probably have a harder time ordering something, since there's just so much to choose from.

Bubble Tea currently has three branches at SM North Edsa, SM Megamall, and Tomas Morato. Reagan and Aileen are also opening a new branch at Wilson Street near Greenhills soon. If you plan on visiting them between now and November 20, you might want to join their Pichur Pichur contest, in which you can win a brand-new Nikon S230 touch-screen camera. You can also Like them on Facebook for even more bubbly fun.

Most photos by Lauren.

Crises

2010-09-28T01:33:00.000-07:00

I hate money. Sure, it's great when you've got enough, but it's been a while since I've been able to feel that sense of security. To me, and likely others like me, money is an evil, big-breasted seductress who toys with you before kicking you in the balls and shooting you down. You want her, but you'll never have her.

I suppose it's easy to predict where this post will be going. I don't really care. Whining to an invisible audience is cathartic somehow; as though I'm packing all these emotions in a trunk, locking it, and throwing away the key. At least I won't be all emo "God the world is unfair I may as well slash myself" about it. I've grown up a little since high school.

If you've got the patience to get to see me in a different light, feel free to read on. Just don't expect me to have a heart-to-heart with you about it. Whatever goes into these "Who Wants Cookies?" posts stays here, as far as I'm concerned. Otherwise, read something else and spare yourself my self-indulgent hoo-ha.

Let me go back to the start - I hate money. These days, it seems all my problems are money-related. I mean, I've got the best girlfriend ever, I've got friends I see on a pretty regular basis, and I'm doing what I want to in life. The catch is, all those get affected in one way or another because my bank account keeps dwindling to an unsavory amount.

There a whole bunch of reasons as to why my funds are in a leaky barrel. If we're going to get specific about it, the main culprit would be the fact that I'm not earning enough. I do make some money, but there are a bunch of demands that I have to deal with, mostly from my family.

Lately, I've been asked to cough up dough for electricity, groceries, and even a surgery. I haven't been able to meet the demands as I'd like, and it's been wearing me down. So much so that I've become pretty unbearable to talk to (Sorry, Lauren). I don't think there's been a day this month where I haven't owed my family some money. It makes me feel pretty much like the failure my parents see me as.

Never mind the fact that a lot of this is because I did something to please my parents.

See, I didn't really have my parents' support when I decided to quit my day job and go into freelance writing full-time. I guess it was something they couldn't understand. Heck, even my sister thought I was a bum for staying home all day and not going to an office (she told me this herself). Their traditionalist thinking made them blind to the fact that I was actually making more money this way, and was feeling a lot more fulfilled with the work I was doing.

And so they would have talks with me. They'd ask me how work was, and then give me some lecture about writing not being a career. Basically, I was given the same spiel my mother gave me when she warned me about the perils of being a starving artist. After that talk, the little five-year-old boy who was drawing his own comics and creating entire worlds in his head gave up on the fantasy and went on a path to med school, just as his parents always wanted. Forget the passion, the creativity, and the talent - go for where the money is.

The same thing's been happening after I went freelance. After I had rediscovered my passion for writing and creative work, I decided to throw caution to the wind and pursue it as a career. I really didn't think of myself as a good fit for med school, anyway (which, by the way, I'm sure they hoped I'd go for after saving the money from my day job). I logged onto Craigslist, found a few clients, and typed my fingers off. Along the way, I found a client who not only paid me very well, but also gave me topics I enjoyed writing about. I was earning well while pursuing my dreams, so much so the shitload of gifts I gave Lauren on Christmas didn't really hit my bank account that hard.

Of course, all this came at the expense of looking like a bum in front of my family. Sometime earlier this year, a local company gave me an offer. I had apprehensions about taking it, especially since I was so comfortable with Well-Paying Client. I could have ideally made about the same amount with Local Company, but only by doing a lot more work. I went back and forth on the decision until I realized something important: Local Company was a chance to show my family that I was actually working. There were company IDs, an office (that I didn't have to go to), and everything. In my all-consuming desire to appease my parents, I took the offer.

Unfortunately, things didn't work out with Local Company. I wasn't very well-rewarded for the passion I put into my work, and the rewards I did get were extremely delayed. Even worse, the work was so taxing that I had to give up my contract with Well-Paying Client. It didn't matter to me at the time, since all I really wanted was my parents' approval.

This led to financial disaster. With paychecks so far between, and a litany of problems coming from my family's financial shortcomings, I ended up being desperate for money. I actually still am, as I'm still waiting for the fruits of my labor at Local Company to come make me happy. Needless to say, things just got worse. With my family's financial demands going unaddressed, I've sunk lower into the Pit of Parental Disapproval. I've had the same "You've got to make more money" talks come to me over and over again. And I can't even afford to get away from all that.

All this has made me realize something - every time I do something to get my parents' approval, it blows up in my face. The pursuit of med school was an enormous waste of time, time I could have spent developing into a real writer and a real artist. The time I spent with Local Company could have been spent with Well-Paying Client, and I could very well be on my second trip to Thailand by now. Instead, I'm at a place in my life I don't want to be, and have been in since God knows when.

From now on, I'm going to be more selfish about things. I shouldn't be a slave to my parents' approval. I've got to accept the fact that their values are simply incompatible with mine, and that compromising myself for their sake only makes me more of a loser than I ought to be. I'm going to do what's right for me, regardless of what others think. It's going to take a while before I can stop feeling guilty for not being a "good son", but I can probably take it.

Goddammit, I'm going to be myself, and I don't give a fuck if they don't like it.

Review: Siege #1

2010-01-09T18:12:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago, I wrote an entry about New Year’s resolutions, and my decision to finally give them a try. In that same entry, I resolved to update my blog a lot more often – something I’ve pulled off rather well as of late, considering my past track record. Of course, this entails me constantly looking for new things to write. Seeing as how I’ve reignited my passion for comics after a few years’ dormancy, it only seems natural that I give writing comic reviews a shot.

(Sorta-long aside: in that very same entry, Paolo pointed out a rather embarrassing oversight on my part – I credited Foreigner with a Survivor song. As much as I’d like to sulk about my mistake, especially since MY FATHER HAS BEEN MAKING ME LISTEN TO THE SONG EVER SINCE I WAS A KID AND IT’S BEEN A PART OF MY SOUL SINCE GOD KNOWS WHEN SO I NEVER SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN IT WRONG IN THE FIRST PLACE, I’ll suck it up, blame it on my current bout of insomnia, and repay Paolo’s call by plugging GeekFight, which he hosts. It is, by far, the most fun Trivia Night series I’ve attended, and the next one’s on this coming Monday, January 11, at Last Home, near Robinson’s Pioneer. Also, this coming Monday will serve as Paolo’s de facto birthday party, so it’s bound to be dripping with awesome.)

Anyhoots, I figured I’d kick off the year’s reviews with an event that started the moment Brian Michael Bendis pretty much took over the Marvel Universe – Siege. To be precise, I’ll be reviewing Siege #1, written by the infamous bald scribe and illustrated by Olivier Coipel.

Siege is hyped up to be culmination of all the Bendis-helmed major crossover events, making it a project that was at least seven years in the making (the event has its roots in Avengers Disassembled, which ran in the late parts of 2004). It’s this fact alone that has me a little disappointed in the series from the get-go. As of now, Siege’s main series is scheduled to consist of just four issues, which is an extremely short payoff for something Marvel’s been trying to make you drool over for the past year or so. This theme seems to carry over into the series’ debut issue, as one-third of the main story has already been released via previews and teaser comics. Six of the 23 story pages have already seen print, and the rest of the 38-page comic (discounting ads) consists of Joe Quesada’s obligatory primer on the event, supplementary material on Siege, and a preview for Fall of the Hulks. In terms of page count alone, Siege #1’s new content fails to live up to the insane hype machine that’s been running since BEFORE the event was announced.

That said, the content does show that Siege has the potential to be an awesome event. People tend to hate on Bendis a lot, but you can’t argue with the man’s ability to create plots that mirror American society today without really being too preachy. Siege is no different. The whole idea behind the crossover is that Norman Osborn’s attempts to “purify” America under his image have reached insane heights. He believes that the realm of Asgard (the home of the Norse gods which for reasons too long to explain now floats over Oklahoma) is a threat to his rise to power, and so he crafts a plot that paints Asgard as a foreign threat to the American way of life, one that needs to be removed from American territory immediately. And so he wages war. On a city of fucking GODS.

The previously-released pages provide the most relevant plot points of the issue, and parallel the events that led to a past Bendis crossover, Civil War. While many fans on the net cry foul at this supposed lack of originality, I see it as bloody brilliant. If Osborn’s goal is to gain support for his assault on Asgard, what better way to do it than to manufacture an incident that so closely mirrored what ignited public outrage against the superhero community as a whole? We all know how society is prone to knee-jerk reactions when it comes to history potentially repeating itself, and Bendis was all too eager to point out how this tendency can be manipulated by people in power.

The rest of the issue lays the foundation for the many side-plots that arise from Osborn’s insane agenda – Victoria Hand’s growing doubt, Ares’ wavering loyalty to Osborn, the Dark Avengers’ motivation for engaging in this suicide mission despite their diminishing trust in Osborn, the White House’s indignation at Osborn’s course of action, and Loki’s cunning manipulation of the events that transpire. You just know that Bendis is setting Stormin’ Norman up to fail, and yet, in the pages that follow, you can’t help but think that the megalomaniac will come out on top. The final panel presents a glimmer of hope, however, in a manner that seems almost poetic when Civil War is taken into consideration.

Olivier Coipel does a decent job of handling the issue’s artistic duties. I never really followed the guy (the last I’ve seen of his work was House of M, another Bendis collaboration), so I can’t really provide a solid critique of the artist in general. From what he’s done in the first issue of Siege, though, we can see that he’s more than capable of making Bendis’ story flow visually. The information in the story is so condensed that it’s better suited for a 32-page spread, but Coipel manages to make everything feel just right despite the lack of space. His visual style is a fine match for the story’s tone, as the whole shebang comes off as one of those epic action movies. Think Black Hawk Down as compared to Rush Hour, and you’ll see what I mean.

I do have one teeny-tiny nitpick, however. Maybe I’ve been spoiled by Ivan Reis’ fantastic work on Blackest Night, but Coipel’s last panel didn’t seem to give off the impact it should have. It was potentially one of the series’ most defining moments, but while the intention was clear, the execution seemed lackluster.

All in all, if the mega-crazy-super-duper-hyper-hype is disregarded, Siege #1 feels like an excellent kick-off to the final part of Bendis’ nearly decade-long saga. The man has done an impeccable job of returning the Avengers to relevance and defining Captain America, Iron Man, and Thor as the foundations of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes. I never really cared for these characters before, but now I find myself clamoring for their long-anticipated reunion.

On Pubic Hair, Politics, and Progressive Thinking

2010-01-08T12:32:00.000-08:00

I’ve been relying on taxis for quite some time now, and I’ve developed a sort of love-hate relationship with them. I love that they can get me to wherever I want, but I hate that getting one can be so inconvenient. I love that they’re a lot more private than the sweaty, squishy trains, but I hate that a lot of the drivers can be total assholes. What I really, really love about cabs, though, is that I sometimes get the most amazing stories and meet some really fascinating people.

This is why I’ve decided to introduce a new subsection to my tiny little blog: The Taxi Ride Diaries. For as long as I am utterly dependent on cabs as my main form of transportation, I’m bound to come up with stories worth sharing. I’ve actually had this idea in my head for quite some time now, but tonight’s escapades gave me that final push I needed to get started on it.

The first cab ride was rather inconsequential, other than the fact that it had me fearing for my life. I was on my way to Lauren’s place, and as a pleasant surprise, I had no trouble getting a ride during the taxi rush hour on my street (around 7:00-8:00pm). The driver, unfortunately, must have been high on something, as he was noticeably twitchy as he drove. Things got scarier when I noticed his legs fidgeting, causing his feet to occasionally slide off the pedals. He seemed to be in enough control to get me to Lauren’s place, though, so I figured I may as well just stick with him. Thinking back, that wasn’t really the smartest option, was it?

I got to Lauren’s safe enough, and had a great time eating brownies and chatting with Tita Noemi and watching the animated joy that is The Venture Brothers. It was getting pretty late, and so I went on my merry way home. Now, the walk from Lauren’s home to her village’s gate is a good ten minutes or so, and I sometimes catch taxis on their way out. I usually hail these cabs as they NEVER turn me down (a rarity in this country), and I get pretty spooked by the village late at night. I, uh, kinda imagine seeing dead people where there aren’t any. Stupid overactive imagination.

Sure enough, a cab arrived to spare me from my own silly thoughts. To my surprise, I didn’t even have to hail him. The driver (who unfortunately I never got the name of) was a pretty old man, the kind who shouldn’t be driving at his age, and he was lost. He pulled over to ask me for directions to the gate. I told him that I was actually on my way out, and could use a ride. I hopped into the cab, and directed him to the gate. When we got there, though, the guard told us that the driver’s pass was from the gate on the OTHER side of the village, and that he had to exit from there. Although I was really, really tempted to get down from there and get a cab from where it was closer to my place, something in my gut told me I should stick with the old man. He looked like he’d been lost for a while, and probably wasn’t going to be too good with directions.

And so we turned back and made our way to the other side of the village. I had no idea how huge Lauren’s village was, and I was worried that me and the cab driver might end up getting lost again. The driver was the type of old man who seemed borderline senile, muttering about how he got lost and talking about a truck that he used as a marker but couldn’t find again, mostly because he had confused other trucks for it. Luckily, though, there was a bunch of people along the way, and we were able to get directions to the exit. We found the gate easily enough, handed the guards the driver’s pass, and got back on the road.

The old man turned to me and snickered, telling me he felt like NoyNoy Aquino back there. I asked what he meant by that, and he said (in Filipino)”Like I had absolutely no idea on what to do or where to go. I felt completely incompetent.” I couldn’t help but giggle back. The driver must have taken this as a hint that I was one of those passengers up for a little conversation, as he became more animated and started talking about anything and everything. In this regard, “anything” meant him talking about how he started wearing Crispa briefs when he first got his first bulbol (pubic hairs), and “everything” meant how that very fact was tied into the sorry state of Philippine politics.

He told me about how much he missed Crispa briefs, about how nice they felt, and how they were a far cry from the shorts his mother made for him out of flour sacks. He told me how sad he was that Crispa wasn’t around much anymore, as compared to the brand in its heyday. He found it rather depressing that his favorite local producer of underwear and shirts was taking a backseat to foreign brands, and how that lack of support for local brands was taking its toll on the economy. He made a lot of sense, to be honest, and he got me listening.

He went on to talk about a variety things, like the origins of Ukay-Ukay and where you’d go to buy surplus appliances back in the day, and he somehow managed to connect it all to politics and the economy. I don’t really remember how we got there, but the conversation went back to NoyNoy, and how it worried the driver that NoyNoy might be too-heavily influenced by the Catholic Church.

This was something I didn’t expect to hear from a cab driver, especially an aged one from one of the most strongly-Catholic countries in the world. I asked him what he meant by this, and he went on to tell me something I never saw coming – he used the RH Bill as an example. He said it was a downright shame that the RH Bill wasn't passed. He saw it as a step in the right direction for the country, in that it was a positive method of helping solve overpopulation, which in turn would help improve the economy. He said that the local clergy got in the way, telling people that the Bill was immoral and promoted abortion. The driver argued that the Bill did no such thing, and merely wanted to ensure that students were educated about alternative ways of avoiding unwanted pregnancies, rather than the ineffective withdrawal movement the Church suggested. What we needed, the driver said, was a leader who could stand up to the Church, who’d ignore their outdated badgering and take an active role in shaping the country with a State separated from the Church, as it should be.

Clearly, these weren’t thoughts I imagined my aged cab driver would be sharing, especially since he told me that he never went to school or anything. And yet he was able to argue a most progressive argument for the RH Bill, which was unpopular among many Filipinos because of the Church’s influence. I’d have listened to more, but by then we had arrived at my place. I paid the man, thanked him for the ride, and thanked him for the talk. He let out a kind laugh, smiled, and drove away.

I don’t know why, but the experience made me feel a little better about the country’s fate. Maybe it was because the old man showed me that there really are intelligent, forward-thinking individuals out there who can see beyond the mass hysteria of public opinion. With the elections coming around, I can only hope that these people step forward and take action.

Cute Meet

2010-01-06T05:01:00.000-08:00

I love my friends. That’s why I can’t really write about the night I met Lauren in full, explicit detail. Doing so might make a lot of my friends laugh, while some of them might remain indifferent. One of them, though, might get hurt, and that’s something I definitely want to avoid. If you want the complete story, you’ll have to ask me in person. Thankfully, though, that particular section of the night Lauren and I first caught each others’ eyes happened in the beginning, and waaaaay before all the mushy stuff. Without further ado, here’s my I-really-love-this-story-and-I-wanna-share-it-to-the-world-but-I-can’t-without-potentially-losing-a-friend-so-here’s-the-best-I-can-do account of that evening:

I was on the road with a bunch of my college friends, and we were on the way to Cantina at Katipunan. My friend JC got word of some late-night escapades in the area that somehow involved Paula, Rica, Kimi, some other Psych people that I’ve embarrassingly forgotten were there, and oodles and oodles of alcohol. More than anything, it was the oodles and oodles of alcohol that beckoned me.

Pardon the really bad chronology for now, but we’ll need about three flashbacks to paint the picture of that car ride right. The first flashback happened months ago, when my ex dumped me in August. Shortly thereafter, my manager in my former office decided to pounce on the opportunity to take her crush on me to the next level (why she crushed on me, I’ll never know). The days and weeks and months that followed were a harrowing ordeal that involved a lot of inappropriate touching, Miley Cyrus songs, and The One Cup of Pudding I Would NEVER EVER Eat.

The second flashback takes me back to one extremely slow day at the office. My mind started to wander out of sheer boredom, and I found myself realizing that I *needed* someone to love. I couldn’t quite explain it at the time, but I think I’m one of those people who genuinely feel an incredible amount of emotion, and without someone or something to share that emotion with, get unbearably restless and frustrated. My singlehood wasn’t characterized by a void, but by an upwelling of feelings that threatened to spontaneously combust within me. I told all this to one of my better friends at the office. I never felt like a bigger pansy for doing so.

The third sorta-flashback was that whole awkward stage after the epiphany, where I, for the very first time in my life, was actively looking for love. Eek.

It didn’t go very well, and after a lackluster experience and three rather frightening ones, I decided I had had enough of it all, which brings us back to the car ride. I resolved to stop looking and just live. I was tired and drained and I just didn’t want to put any effort into finding someone to love anymore. I was done with being single-and-seeking, and wanted to be just single. Most of all, though, I was frustrated – why couldn’t I find a smart, funny, sexy, cute, intelligent, dorky girl who wasn’t bat-shit crazy??? I wanted to cut my losses and ditch the whole “wanting someone to love” bit. I remember telling all this to everyone in the car. I never felt like a bigger douche for doing so.

When we finally arrived at Cantina, I was surprised to see more people than I expected, including a few unfamiliar faces. The group was way too big for the table we were at, so we moved to a bigger one. Since I was closest to the new table, I ended up being the first to sit. That’s when I found myself cut off from my Psych friends and surrounded by three long-haired strangers – Helga, Luis, and Lauren. What seemed like the perfect opportunity to make new friends was an incredibly terrifying experience for me. I’m incredibly awkward at these sorts of situations, so I made a hasty retreat to my beer.

Then, for some strange reason, something in me kind of just switched on. I figured since there was no way I could weasel closer to my college friends, I may as well make the most of things and *gasp* be social. I acted completely out of character and started blabbing away, although occasionally bringing the beer to my mouth at times of awkwardness. I didn’t realize it until long after that evening that Girl to the Left (Helga) did a fantastic job of facilitating conversation between me and Girl to the Right (Lauren), who I couldn’t help but notice was pretty damn cute. Helga asked if I liked zombies, to which I replied with a resounding yes. Lauren then followed up with “What’s your favorite zombie movie?”, and I told her I had to go with Romero’s rather visceral piece of social commentary, as it showed that zombie flicks could actually be quite profound. Helga asked if I liked cats, and I told the group I actually grew up as a cat person, but recently learned to appreciate dogs, too.

Then Helga asked if I was gay. I imagine Lauren looked mortified at this moment, but I was actually kinda glad Helga asked. I know I don’t necessarily look like my personality, so I took this as an awesome conversation starter. I asked them what I looked like, and after a few queasy replies, we determined that my overall aesthetic was that of a gay management student. I found this really funny, and I explained to them how far off that image was from the actual me. Somehow I got into joking that I was actually this totally emo character, and talked about how I love to slash my wrists and about how all I really wanted was to be hugged. Lauren kept laughing along with me, and we didn’t really notice that the conversation ended up being between just the two of us.

I couldn’t help but realize how good it felt to make Lauren laugh. There was just something about her that made me want to bring that beautiful smile out over and over again. Before I knew it, I was crushing on her.

It was getting pretty late, and people wanted to go home. Those of us who arrived late to the party, though, wanted to keep drinking. We decided to head out to Meat Shop 2.0 for a little more inebriation. To my surprise, Lauren didn’t leave with Helga and Luis, and instead came with us to Meat Shop. I was noticeably quieter at that point because of three things: 1) I was getting tired; 2) I was doing so well with this amazing new girl and I didn’t want to fuck anything up; and 3) HOLY SHIT SHE’S FUCKING SITTING RIGHT BESIDE ME DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID. Yeah, I was majorly crushing.

Thankfully, I avoided almost all sorts of I’m-a-cool-guy-and-totally-not-dorky faux pas. Almost. My friend Dino offered to drive Rica home after Meat Shop, to which a slightly tipsy Rica happily agreed. We all got into Dino’s car and headed out. After we dropped Rica off, Dino felt like driving a little longer and offered to drive Lauren home as well. I have no idea what possessed me, but when he offered, I found myself singing Drive by The Cars. Oops. For one thing, making a 80s reference was sooooo 90s of me. A poor rendition of the song, as performed by a tipsy talentless buffoon, is just plain sad. To my surprise, Lauren was perfectly fine with my act of dorkery. I found out weeks later that she actually thought it was kinda cute.

We dropped Lauren off at her place (during which I expressed my awe at the Big Boy-ish statue in her village), and that was the end of the evening. As I headed home, I remember thinking “Did I really just meet a girl who was smart and funny and sexy and cute and intelligent AND dorky???”

It’s been a year since then, and I can attest to the fact that Lauren really is smart and funny and sexy and cute and intelligent AND dorky.

And she’s bat-shit crazy in love with me. <3

The Resolutionary War, or How Survivor will Change My Life in 2010

2010-01-04T12:36:00.000-08:00

I fucking hate New Year’s Eve. There, I said it. Every year, my hearing gets a little worse thanks to the fireworks that go BOOM in rapid, obnoxious succession. The smoke from said fireworks is pretty smelly, and it colors my boogers black (heehee, I said “boogers”). I stay up ‘till ungodly hours (read: 9am) because my family heads on over to my lola’s house in Dasmariñas Village AFTER 2am, and we party until after the sun comes up.

Perhaps the thing I dislike most about New Year’s Eve, though, is the resolution-making. Every year, people ask me what my New Year’s resolutions are, to which I mumble incoherently so as to disguise the fact that I don’t have any. I don’t make any resolutions because I think they’re silly, desperate attempts to correct the previous year’s mistakes. I mean, most of the resolutions I’ve heard were all based on what my friends should’ve done in 2009. I should’ve been friendlier, therefore I resolve to be more social this year. I should’ve taken more care of my figure, therefore 2010 will be the year I diet and exercise! I should’ve fallen in love, therefore I will leap at the opportunities that present themselves in 2010.

Blah-dee-blah-dee-blah. I don’t see why people should start their years by thinking immediately of their regrets, nor do I see why they attempt to make up for these regrets by making these vague, impossible-to-fulfill promises to themselves. Saying “I promise to be better” opens you up for disappointment, especially since the goals set during New Year’s Eve are usually too hard to reach.

But this isn’t some rant entry. In fact, it’s supposed to be quite jolly and optimistic and motivational. Let’s rewind and brighten things up, shall we?

In retrospect, New Year’s Eve isn’t too bad. Sure, the fireworks can be deafening, but they’re also really pretty, and I happen to find them very romantic. The smoke does get pretty gross, but the awesome Silent Hill-like fog the morning after makes the city look a lot more interesting. I may lose sleep over the holidays, but that’s because I’m drinking and partying with people I really, really love.

The resolutions, though, I still find kinda silly and desperate. I guess it just isn’t my thing.

And then I remember that 2010 is the Year of the Tiger, which to my overly-cheesy mind reminds me of Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger. This, my friends, is THE YEAR OF THE THEME SONG FROM ROCKY. Because The Immortal Power Ballad of Triumph now plays in my head every time I think of what year it is, I must pay due respect to it. I must overcome physical exertion, mental exhaustion, and an indecipherable Italian-American accent. I must challenge myself and succeed. I must… make some New Year’s resolutions.

See, I like to approach life with a little spontaneity. Resolutions kind of take away from that, like planning what you’re going to have for dessert before raiding the fridge does. Telling yourself, “I’m soooooo gonna have ice cream,” before opening your freezer door can have one of two effects – A) You get your ice cream, and you are satisfied over getting exactly what you want; or B) You find that there’s no ice cream, and you’re left with that lingering craving for cold, creamy goodness. Opening the ref without really planning your dessert brings the possibility of pleasant surprises. You can peek into the freezer and go “HOLY SHIT ICE CREAM FUCK YEAH EXPLETIVE EXPLETIVE JOY”. You can find that there’s no ice cream at all, but you weren’t really looking for it anyway, so there wasn’t really any loss. Or you can look into an empty freezer, have your eyes wander downwards, and find cookies that you didn’t know you wanted until you saw them. Approaching life with light expectations (because, of course, you’re still hoping to find dessert in the ref) just brings you more avenues for happiness through serendipity. Heck, the night I met Lauren was a prime example of that (you can read her fantastically-written account of that evening here while I'm still writing my own).

This outlook towards expectations has never really failed me, and I really like the ways things are now. I don’t really put too much pressure on myself or on the things (or people) that make me happy. But then Survivor’s words echo through my mind, and I recall the sweet, sweet feeling of triumph that Rocky reveled in when he got past that final step at the end of the classic movie montage, and it makes me want that feeling. Bad. And if New Year's resolutions can give me that feeling, well... Maybe they aren't so silly after all.

And so, with Eye of the Tiger playing in the background, here are the steps to my Philadelphia Museum of Art:

1. Write all those blog entries I wrote in my head these past two months and finally post them, GODDAMMIT! I’m giving myself until the end of next week for this one.

2. Update my blogs a lot more. Attempt to write an entry in either blog at least once a week. This one counts.

3. Once I’ve gotten the hang of writing more often, shoot for an entry a day for an entire month (probably May or October).

4. Give my sister the Most Awesome Palanca Ever for her final high school retreat.

5. Learn to draw better poses for my doodles.

6. Unlock the mysteries of perspective drawing.

7. Finish a painting I’d actually be proud of.

8. Make my girlfriend insanely, butt-wigglingly happy through some sort of gesture (although this is always a goal).

9. Gain five pounds. Preferably of muscle. Preferably before I take my 6-foot+ junior varsity cousin on in a basketball game I challenged him to.

10. Stop making such stupid challenges.

11. Make enough money to be able to buy myself a Wii, a Rock Band set for Susan (my shiny new Xbox 360) and still have enough left over to keep myself comfortable.

12. Make myself a kick-ass personal calling card.

13. Learn a new skill, or refine an existing one. Drawing doesn’t count.

14. Make at least two more fwends. Two because I’m kinda shy. *blush*

15. Travel one more time (domestic or international) this year, after Bangkok this April.

Okay, so maybe my list is 57 steps short of the 72 that Rocky ran (does this appease you, fellow trivia nerds?), but I’m all about consistency, and staying consistent with myself means keeping my expectations for myself light. I’m also pretty good at disguising my inability to think of more goals (at least those that I think are achievable) through semi-believable rationalization. It’s going to be fun coming back to this list in the future and checking to see what I’ll have achieved by then. I have a horrible feeling I’m going to fail number 10, but 14 out of 15 ain’t so bad. I think. Anyway, I’m going to attack this list and do my goddamn best to rise to the challenges.

Eye of the Tiger, bitches. It’s my year. Roar. Meow.

Catching Airplanes

2009-11-15T10:20:00.000-08:00

I used to have this one quirk that girls would find cute. Either that, or they’d slowly back away from me before turning around and running. See, I remember someone telling me that if you caught a hundred airplanes and kept them in your hand, you’d get to make a wish. For years, I thought it was my cousin who taught me that, but when she caught me reaching up into the sky and pretending to catch a passing airplane with my hand, well... let’s just say she didn’t find it cute.

I carried on that small game well into my college years, and a little beyond that. So long as I heard the din of an airplane engine, I’d look to the sky and search for the source. If I found it, I’d catch it and say what number that plane was, just to remind myself of how many more I needed for a wish.

I’ve caught enough airplanes in my life to make three wishes, and they’ve all come true. My first hundred-airplane wish was, quite sappily, made for my girlfriend. I wished for her happiness. Considering that the girl is my ex now, I probably should’ve just wished for a Playstation 3.

The next two wishes were more of a reflection of my life and troubles. Going to college without any way of paying the tuition is a really tough thing to do, even with scholarships that improved from partial ones to a full one. There came a time when my family was having trouble scrounging up 5000 pesos to pay for my tuition backlog from my partial scholarship days. It was pretty depressing, realizing that the thing I wished most for was the chance to enrol for the coming semester. Thankfully, though, things worked out and I got through college.

I don’t really catch airplanes anymore. I still do it occasionally, but I never hunt down the planes I hear in the sky. And when I do, I’m never really that sure about how many I’ve caught since my last hundred a year ago. It’s always somewhere around 74-77, give or take a couple of planes.

I was thinking about why I don’t catch airplanes anymore, when it hit me – I would do it in times of unhappiness. I mean, although my ex really is a nice person, she was making me unhappy with myself. She never really let me be the goofy, quirky, corny geek that I am. In fact, she made me feel ashamed of it, mostly because she was ashamed of me. I never really admit it to myself until recently, but the way she was trying to turn me into a douche to “make me better” spoke volumes about how she didn’t really like who I was as a person. Deep inside, I think I knew that for most of the time we were together. My wish for her, if I remember right, went something like this – “I wish for her happiness, even if it didn’t include me”. I imagine I thought myself selfless at the time, but maybe there was more to that thought than I realized.

The other two hundred were self-explanatory. There are few things that are as depressing as being in education limbo, never knowing if you were still going to school until days after the regular enrolment period. I swear my children (if I ever have them) will never, ever have to go through what I had to go through.

Maybe I’m overthinking my past here, but it kinda makes sense to me. I mean, don't we all make wishes when we want something missing from our lives? Maybe I was subconsciously wishing for some actual happiness. I’ll probably never really know why I started catching those airplanes when I did. I’ll never know for certain if I really was doing it to maximize my chances of finding happiness, or if I’m just making these connections up because I’m way too introspective for my own good. I can’t go back in time and ask my old self about this.

I can, however, pinpoint the time where I cut down on the airplane-catching – sometime between January and February 2009. If you know me and my story, you’ll probably see why.

Survivor Politics; or, Writing Political Commentary Gets Silly when You're Battling Insomnia

2009-10-27T02:50:00.001-07:00

Perhaps it was the fact that I’ve been reading up on health and fitness websites for the past 12 hours, but I haven’t been able to get Olivia Newton-John’s “Physical” out of my head. It’s become so pervasive that, as I was thinking of a title for this little rambling on next year’s presidential elections, the only real idea I had was to use “Let’s Get Political” (sung, of course, to the tune of the aforementioned pop song). I realize that it’s downright ridiculous to start off an entry about politics with a rather personal issue with an 80s pop song, but then again, that’s exactly what I think of our country’s current state of affairs.

I’m not the first to say that the state of politics in the Philippines is ridiculous, and I certainly won’t be the last, but all this talk about the elections had me thinking – just how many people are going to run for president next year? A little bit of research tells me that a whopping 18 individuals have expressed their intentions to run for office. Among those 18, only 6 have dropped out of the race. Am I the only one thinking how stupid it would be if things stayed the way they are come election time? Those are 12 names potentially on the ballot, each vying for a chance to be the leader of our nation.

Now color me idealistic, but how the heck are we supposed to pick a leader based on majority of the public opinion if the public’s opinion is divided 12 ways? If things stay the way they are, the eventual winner will probably claim the presidency with only 20% of the vote! Sure, that 20% may have had the majority of the votes, but is it really what most of us want? In terms of population size, and not the number of votes cast, 20% is a paltry amount. That’s like saying someone gets to be class president because 8 out of 40 people voted for him.

Of course, the number of candidates is bound to drop the closer we get to the elections, but the final number will likely still be too much to constitute a good vote. See, having too many candidates appears to be a part of our political culture. Since 1992, we’ve had an average of 7.33 presidential candidates over three elections, none of which has won by over 40% of the vote. Former President Ramos, in fact, won by only 23.6% (or, in classroom terms, around 9 students). Next year’s election will probably turn out like this – 6-9 candidates on the ballot, with the winner getting roughly 25-35% of the vote.

I, for one, think that’s really, really stupid. No classroom is going to be happy with the class president if only 14 students voted for him; in the same fashion, the voting population is never going to be happy with the country’s president if 60% of them didn’t even choose the guy. No wonder we keep squabbling with each other – the other guys fucked us up with their votes.

The sheer number of candidates tends to divide the public rather than unite them, which is the opposite of what an election should do. Again, I’m being idealistic here, but I’d like to imagine that an election is a time for people to come together and discuss what exactly the country needs, as personified by a leader. Sure, there are always going to be opposing voices, but look at it this way – with two candidates, the worst you’ll get is one half of the population disagreeing with the other half. With 5 candidates, your worst case scenario involves each fifth of the population fighting with each of the four other fifths. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have two large-sized chunks of the population fighting each other rather than 5 smaller chunks arguing among themselves. At least more people work towards a common cause in the former scenario. At least there’s some sense of unity there.

I don’t see this problem going away, either. I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about bipartisan politics, and I’m probably exposing myself as a himbo here, but I do know that our politicians are too involved with themselves to actually sit together and decide which single person would be the best candidate to represent either the left or the right. Our leaders would rather divide the public’s opinion than bring it together, all for their own ambitions for power. It’s downright ridiculous.

This is why I’d like to share an equally-ridiculous, completely uneducated solution: hold the elections like fucking Survivor. That’s right – have the candidates battle it out and prove their worth to the Philippine tribe. Let the candidates scramble for public favour in an effort to save themselves from being voted out by the population. Hell, we already have the personalities to make a decent show – Manny Villar, the picture of success; JC de Los Reyes, the spunky young upstart; Joseph Estrada, the charming ex-con looking to redeem himself; and Noynoy Aquino, the guy whose mom died. All we need is an impartial Jeff Probst to give them challenges and tally the votes.

I can see it now – on week 1, Jeff tells the candidates they have three weeks to improve the nation’s hunger issue. The candidate who feeds the most mouths gets immunity. Villar takes the easy route and rains money over depressed areas while perched on his solid gold helicopter. Noynoy distributes canned goods with yellow labels (natch), helping the hungry subsist on Argentina Corned Beef and canned lychees. De Los Reyes plays the youth card, calling all students to volunteer in the effort and promising them better grades in return. Erap smiles and winks at the populace, assuring us that “mabubusog ang masa sa pagmamahal ko"(the masses will get full thanks to my love for them). At the end of three weeks, Erap inexplicably survives the vote despite 600 people dying of starvation on his watch. By the time we reach the grand finale, the remaining two contestants make their final appeals to the voters before the ballots are cast.

Sure, it’s impractical, oversimplified, and lacks any proper understanding of politics, but at least we’ll have the candidates actually serving the country as they campaign, rather than the empty posturing we see all the time. Even if the winning candidate turns out to be a major bomb, as was the case with our more recent administrations, they’ll at least have done the public some service.

Just don’t let Bayani Fernando walk around naked on camera.

Happy Birthday

2009-10-21T14:13:00.000-07:00

Looking back at my previous entries made me realize one thing – I haven’t posted in over a month. There’s no better time than now to write, though; I’ve been fighting a bout of insomnia, and just had one of the most enlightening talks I’ve ever had with my brother.

Those who really know me know that I really look up to him; he’s not only my brother, he’s the very reason why I’ve been so enchanted with writing. I already mentioned briefly about how my brother’s writing got me interested in doing it as well, but I never said how powerful his influence was. To many impressionable young kids, a brother four years your senior is the closest thing you have to a role model (aside from superheroes and cartoon characters). When I was younger, my brother would write and write and write, and he’d get praise from his teachers and my parents for his skills as a wordsmith. The pride my parents took in his writing made putting good sentences together like the ultimate achievement. To me, writing was, in layman’s terms, the shiznit.

So I grew up reading his work and wanting to write like him. For a while, I did my best to copy his style and pass it off as my own. Whatever I did, though, it never really came out as good as his stuff, so I decided to stop trying and develop my own voice. Writing grew to be my passion, and it’s led me to where I am now.

Where I am now is sitting in front of my laptop a few hours after my brother’s birthday ended. There was some impromptu get-together held at my second-favourite source of foreign beers in the country, but I couldn’t go because of A)work, and B)budget. I also found out about it pretty late – around 10pm – and I really had my hands tied. I figured I could make it for my brother’s real birthday celebration on Saturday, but then I found out my sister and mother were going.

This was an unexpected hitch. See, my mother believes that familial obligations are of the highest priority, and I’d agree with her on most nights. It’s just that too many circumstances were going against me, and I really wouldn’t have been able to make it (the bar is pretty far from my place). The fact that my mother was going, though, meant that I had to force the issue and go, or else face her wrath; “wrath”, in this sense, meaning “life-long guilt trip from Hell”. I’ve always felt like the failure son in her eyes, and this incident would have only reinforced that image.

But here’s just how awesome my brother is – he completely understood my predicament, AND he reasoned it out with my mother. This is a man who, on his own birthday, dealt with familial drama that didn’t directly involve him. On his very birthday, he defended me.

I found out about this when he came home, drunk but very much awake. I greeted him, and then apologized profusely for my absence. What he did next was just amazing to me – he started going on and on about how he kept defending me against my mother, in front of everyone at the establishment. When she complained about my absence, he told her that he didn’t find it a problem; and if he didn’t find it a problem, it shouldn’t be an issue. When she insisted that I simply didn’t value family as much as they did, he told her that she didn’t really know me that well. When she got drunk and started complaining about my career choices, he told her to have faith in my ability, just like he did.

At some point in his passionate recounting, I asked him if he’d like to cap the night off with a final birthday scotch. He happily agreed, and we relocated to the dinner table. Once we had our glasses, he continued talking about how much he believed in me, and about how much it kills him that no one else in this family seems to do the same.

That’s just the guy my brother is – he’s one of the most incredibly selfless individuals I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. He spent most of the closing hours of his birthday making ME feel good about myself. He went on and on about enjoying my blogs and hearing me ramble on and on about anything and everything at the end of the day. He told me about how he wished he could do what I was doing, and that he had complete and utter faith that I could do it well. For one night, he made me feel the opposite of what I felt all my life – I felt worthy of admiration this evening.

Despite all that ego-boosting, he closed by thanking me. He told me that talking with me salvaged what might have been one of the more depressing birthdays of his life – although he had a great time with his friends, there was the shadow of a quarter-life crisis looming overhead and a mother who just wouldn’t stop bringing up familial drama. Talking to me, he said, made him feel like he had family more than the physical presence of the others did.

Afterwards, I told him my piece about how he was the original inspiration for what I do, about how I think his own noble selfishness sort of cheats him out of pursuing writing, and about how talented and smart and good he is for being that unselfish. Like every nice guy, he took it with a grain of salt. He probably won’t remember much of it until he reads this post.

We continued well into the wee hours talking about the fun random things people talk about when they’ve had a little too much scotch – sexuality, comics, software development, friends, relationships, work, beer as the reason for civilization, and Japanese exploitation movies from the 1970s, among others. When his eyes started doing the “will we or won’t we close?” dance, I suggested calling it a night. He happily agreed.

This was perhaps one of the best talks I’ve had with my brother, even if he was probably only half-sober. Heck, it was one of the best times I’ve had with him, period. I’m really happy that he enjoyed it too, and that he had a pretty good end to his birthday, despite my earlier absence. He may not see me in any pictures from the celebration, but at least he’s got these thousand or so words.

Happy birthday, Mart.

Lookie, Lookie! More Wasted Binary Code!

2009-09-21T13:07:00.000-07:00

As many of those close to me know, I quit my day job to become a freelance writer. Because I'm waaaaaay too introspective for my own good, I've decided to chronicle my thoughts on living life where corporate douchebags fear to tread on another blog. It's nothing fancy, and I haven't even customized the layout yet, but it's there, and I've got the introduction post written down and everything. So, if you've got time to kill, feel free to waste some of it at soiquitmydayjob.blogspot.com.

P.S. This counts as my shortest post yet. I'm tempted to pad the word count to my usual thousand or so, but bleh. Hurrah for brevity!

On Meat and Marlboro Men; or A Steak Dinner at Texas Roadhouse Grill

2009-09-15T03:45:00.001-07:00

There isn’t a single dish more masculine than a steak (besides, of course, a steak wrapped in bacon dipped in batter and fried in beer, but such awesomeness shall sadly only exist in fantasyland). Perhaps it’s because of the fact that a steak is a thick slab of muscle. Maybe it’s because said thick slab of muscle is cooked over a roaring fire, a symbol of man’s dominance over the natural world. ~~It could be the delightful marinades and seasonings that~~ IT’S PERFECT WITH BEER.

In the Most Sacred Church of Masculinity that every male is born baptized into, sinking your teeth into a juicy steak is a spiritual experience that takes you back to the raw, primal days when our cave-dwelling ancestors hunted down beasts of old and feasted upon their fire-grilled flesh. Much to my chagrin, I found myself severely lacking in this holiest of man-foods. In normal, non-pretentious English, I haven’t had a steak in a while.

But life has a funny way of fixing things. Last night, the Gods of Manliness took mercy upon me and led me to perhaps the manliest place I could imagine – Texas Roadhouse Grill. It was a Western-themed restaurant. With Marlboro Men on the walls. That served big, beefy steaks. Hallelujah.

A place of worship, really.

It turns out that this Palace of Masculinity has been around for a while, opening its two branches way back in 2007. How it could have escaped my sight for so long eludes me, but that doesn’t matter. I know about it now, and so too, should every red-blooded male.

As Lauren and I walked through the doors, I knew immediately that the establishment took its theme very seriously. Everything, from the wooden doors and frames, to the lights that hung overhead, reminded me of a saloon from the Old West, the types where cowpokes and outlaws and gringos alike sat down for a steak and some beer. The pictures of cowboys saddling up that adorned the walls added to the ambience.

We sat down, eager to learn if the same attention to detail put into the interiors would translate into the food. After a quick tour of the kitchen (wherein Texas Roadhouse Grill earned major bonus points for its strict adherence to rules on cleanliness and proper waste disposal, and also for owning an icemaker big enough to hide a body in), we were served our first appetizers: Chunky Corn Soup with Bacon and Nacho Strips.

The soup tasted as good as it looked. Each one of the flavours was distinct, from the sweetness of the corn to the saltiness of the bacon, but pulled together into a harmonious, hearty soup. With the nacho strips adding some delightful texture to the dish, Lauren and I had no trouble enjoying every bit of it.

Underneath the surface: hidden treasure. Bacon is treasure.

The soup was followed up with the Jesse James Sampler plate, which allowed us to taste a trio of Texas Roadhouse Grill’s most popular appetizers. The dish featured Buffalo wings, cheese fritters, and chicken fingers, each with their own sauces. The Buffalo wings had a nice combination of tanginess and heat, and was cooled down by its blue cheese dip. While I enjoyed the wings, and maybe had more than I should have, I couldn’t help but hope that they put a little more of the Buffalo sauce on them. The cheese fritters, on the other hand, were your usual deep-fried sticks of mozzarella with marinara sauce – which, needless to say, is a very good thing. Again, while the fritters were very, very good, I think jalapeno bits would have knocked them out of the park. Lastly, the chicken fingers were delightfully tender and matched with the honey mustard sauce really well. Lauren made a most wonderful discovery, though – the chicken fingers were even better with the blue cheese dip.

I want jalapeno cheesesticks.

By this time, the appetizers had my mouth watering for something a bit more... meaty. Along comes the main course, The Great Rib-Eye. This gargantuan 10-oz. hunk of meat was about the size to both of my hands fanned out, and about an inch thick. Perfect for the manly man I am. With ~~beer~~ Pepsi in hand, I took my fork and knife to the steak and took a big, juicy bite. The steak was good – well-grilled, seasoned just right, and tender enough to cut with ease. I would’ve preferred that they gave us a choice over the doneness of the steak (it was served medium, and I like my steaks medium-rare), but the steak was very good nonetheless. I have this belief that a good steak is one that you don’t have to add any sauce to, and this fit the bill. Also, the rustic mashed potatoes served with the steak were a perfect complement.

My inner savage approves.

The next dish served was their Shrimp and Salmon Skewer plate – juicy pieces of shrimp skewered alternately with hefty chunks of salmon and grilled to any diner’s delight. I love my seafood, and this entree didn’t change a single thing. The flavours went exceptionally well with the lemon butter sauce served on the side.

Even something as dainty as seafood can be made manly with skewers and a grill.

Unfortunately, this is where my adventure ended. The event lasted longer than I expected, and I had a birthday party to catch. I despise eating and running, but I hate going back on my word even more, and I had already promised my friend I'd be there to celebrate the evening with her. It’s a shame that Lauren and I didn’t get to try Texas Roadhouse Grill’s Baby Back Ribs, or their Mighty Oreo Mud Pie, but I have a strong feeling that I'll be heading back there soon to do so.

Overall, I find Texas Roadhouse Grill to be a great place to get your RDA of man-food. Wash their great menu items down with some beer (P260 a bucket), and you’ve got yourself a recipe for an awesome night of manliness. Unless, of course, you don’t like beer. In that case, a Pepsi or one of the many fruit shakes available is a manly enough substitute.

You can find Texas Roadhouse Grill at Bldg. 1, Bonifacio High Street, or at El Pueblo, Ortigas Center. For a less masculine (but better-written) recap of the meal, check out Lauren's take on it. It appears we have the same tastes in food. :P

Aside – the event was also pretty edumacational, too. I learned that my dad orders his steaks all wrong. He always gets them well-done, which the chef told us kills the flavour of the meat and dries out all the juiciness. The menu even goes so far as to state that ordering your steaks well-done isn’t recommended. Sorry pop – you’ve been wasting your steaks.

Fish & Co. Is Psychic, and Their New Just for Me Menu is Proof!

2009-09-11T01:47:00.000-07:00

I've had my eye on Fish & Co. for quite some time now. Ever since my sister’s grade school graduation, the time I first ate there, I've been meaning to go back. I fell in love with their fish and chips and puff pizzas, and crave for them from time to time. The problem is, I'm a bit of a cheapskate. Fish & Co.’s well-known for their generous servings which, fairly enough, make eating there a little more costly than I'd like. It’s great to share and all, but sometimes, I just want something smaller. My wallet shares the same sentiment.

And so I resigned to the fact that I'd probably only get to eat at Fish & Co. on special occasions and large gatherings. Dining there, then, would only be a rare and wonderful thing.

One evening, however, everything changed. I was chatting with Lauren when I received the most intriguing proposal:

*DISCLAIMER: Not all details in the following conversation may be accurate. Never mind that I archive all my messages.*

Lauren: bibblez

Lauren: are you busy?

Me: Not really, why?

Lauren: wanna go with me to an event on Thursday night?

[several minutes pass]

Lauren: are joo there?

Me: Sorry, had to wrestle a bear. Man, my rippling pectoral muscles are sore. Anyway, what is this event you speak of?

Lauren: Some dinner thing at Fish & Co. in Shangri-La

Me: I'm there!

The night of the event came soon after. Lauren wanted to window shop for a bit, since we hardly ever hung out at malls. At around 7:10pm, Lauren brought up not wanting to be late for the event. I asked her at what time the event started. “7pm,” she said. Oops.

We made it to the restaurant, but all other tables were filled, and so we were ushered to a table all our own. After a bit of talking and chowing down on chips, we soon learned the purpose of the event: Fish & Co. was debuting their new “Just for Me” menu, a selection of dishes with single-person servings. I heard the hymns of angels. It’s like Fish & Co. read my mind and decided to give me exactly what I needed to become a regular customer. What's more, they let us sample each of the five dishes in the Just for Me menu. Suffice to say, I was an extremely happy skinny fatass-at-heart.

The first dish served was the Bangus a la Pobre, served with seafood rice. I adore garlic, and the dish had oodles of the stuff. The bangus was well-cooked, filleted and fried in batter, and was just big enough to make a single person very full. I'm not used to having my a la pobre sauce that chunky, and it seemed a little too tangy for my tastes. The seafood rice provided balance for the sauce, though, and I ended up enjoying the dish.

That's a whole lotta garlic!

Next was, in my opinion, the star of the evening. If my taste buds were alive, they’d be staging a musical in honor of Fish & Co.’s Barbecued Chicken Fillet. The meat was so tender, we were using butter knives to cut it. And the sauce – the SAUCE! It was to die for. It was smoky, yet sweet, with just the right tinge of alcohol. I first thought that the seafood rice was a curious pairing with the chicken, but it turned out to be an even better match than java.

I think chickens should just naturally evolve into this, their superior form.

The awesome-bomb that was the chicken was followed by another excellent dish, the Cream Dory Fillet Napoletana. This was a much more modest dish, and it served to balance out the intensity of the chicken’s flavour. The dory was battered, fried, and topped with marinara sauce and mozzarella cheese. The fillet was then rested atop buttered noodles. I was sceptical of the pairing at first, but found that the heaviness of the noodles contrasted pretty well with the light and fluffy dory. While this ended up being one of the dishes I ate most of, I think it could’ve been better with more marinara sauce.

Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...

Next up was the Beef and Eggplant Curry. I absolutely love curry, but this particular dish fell a bit short on my expectations. The sauce itself was very good – it was creamy and flavourful, and very hot without being painfully so. My problem with the dish was that there was too little sauce; I like my curry smothered in the stuff. Also, the beef was the only meat we had trouble cutting that evening.

More of the awesome sauce, please!

The last dish served was the Fried Salmon Belly with Mushroom Rice. It’s funny – when I was much younger, I used to love eating fish belly. But then I realized that I found it pretty gross, and probably only ate it because I was copying my mom. While I'm not a fan of salmon belly, I have eaten enough of it to know that this particular entree was well-cooked. The mushroom rice, on the other hand, was excellent.

I don't like it, but it's good for what it is.

Remember how I said that Lauren and I were late for the event? That was a blessing in awesome clothing. We were left with an entire table to ourselves, and so we had all five dishes split between the two of us! There was so much food at the table, Lauren just felt compelled to take this picture of my fatassery:

I was pregnant with a food baby at this point.

All in all, Fish & Co.’s Just for Me menu is something to look forward to. I'm definitely going to go back for the chicken and the dory, and I think I'll give the curry another try. If you want to try any of these dishes, do yourself a favor and become a Fish & Co. fan on Facebook first. Each fan that brings two or more friends to any Fish & Co. branch gets a free Just for Me meal! That’s a pretty good incentive to get your buddies hooked on Fish & Co., in my opinion at least.

You can find Fish & Co. at the Shangri-La mall, Alabang Town Center, Greenbelt 3, SM Mall of Asia, and Trinoma Mall. You can also check out Lauren's take on the Just for Me menu here.

I Think I Might Secretly Be Fifty Years Old

2009-08-18T02:01:00.000-07:00

I've noticed that I've become uncharacteristically open recently. For most of my life, I was that guy who people confided in, but never really knew anything about; the kind that was always there to lend an ear or a hand, but never a mouth. Sure, I'd talk, but I'd never really share that much about myself. I was there more to listen.

I've never really been fond of talking about myself. This blog might tell you otherwise, but you’d see what I mean if you met me in real life. I always thought that one socialized to get to know people, and you only really get to know people if you shut up and listen. How else are you going to know your girlfriend’s dream city (San Francisco), your brother’s occupational frustrations (he hates his job and wants to write for a living), or your buddy’s religious views (a personal mix of his own beliefs, including some Eastern philosophies that my college classes failed to bring up; PRESTIGIOUS UNIVERSITY PHILOSOPHY FAIL) if you don’t shut your yap and listen up? And what kind of selfish jackass would you have to be to not get to know the people you choose to surround yourself with?

And yet, here I am, suddenly pouring my heart out to those people I just mentioned. I'm no longer just the guy who was there to listen to you, but the guy who needs you to listen from time to time. I have no idea what brought this change about me. Could it be that I'm happier these days? That I'm enjoying life so much that I just have to share it? Maybe it’s because for the first time in God knows how many years, I feel like myself, and that finally gives me license to talk about myself. I've opened up about life, love, and the joys and tragedies that come along with them, and I have to say, it feels pretty damn good to get things off your chest.

It also made me realize just how selfish I was in being just a listener. Here I was, keeping my mouth shut because I wanted get to know my loved ones, but I was denying them the chance to get to know me in return. Socializing is about getting to know other people, but I failed to acknowledge that it works both ways. People want to get to know me, no matter how mundane I think I am. Heck, it’s what they learn about me that makes me a lot more interesting as a person.

Case in point – the incident that occurred shortly after last Sunday morning’s Basketballapalooza. After a very satisfying series of games (read: 6), my brother and I found ourselves stranded in the Valle Verde II covered court. We were supposed to walk our way out of the village and find a cab, but the schizophrenic weather we’ve been having stopped us from doing so. We decided to wait it out by cooling down and shooting a few casual hoops.

(Aside – I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I played shirtless while waiting for the rain to subside. Lauren, if you’re reading this, it’s not as alluring as you might think. Imagine my tiny little man-boobies jiggling along as I ran. Yeah. Grampa was balling.)

Somewhere along the line, I decide to talk to my brother about one goal I've had in my head ever since I can remember – it’s that before I die, I want to make a positive imprint in at least one person’s life. I've always figured that if I could do just that, I could die feeling fulfilled.

See, I was a weird little kid. While other boys my age were either formulating grand schemes to save the world or wondering what was for dessert that night, I was thinking about how one person could possibly make the world a better place. Sure, there are those who start movements that enrich the lives of others, and revolutionaries who initiate campaigns to improve the world as we know it, but for every person who does so in a benevolent manner, there is a Hitler. If we hold sway over masses and convince them that our way is right, we gain the power to control them. With that power, we have the potential to oppress. Don't get me wrong, there is a lot of merit to uniting people under a good cause, but mob mentality can cloud your perceptions. You might not be able to see that though your intentions are noble, your methods aren’t. It’s happened way too often in history for people to ignore that.

And so, at an age way too early to do so, I decided that I wanted to remain one of the little people. Instead of putting all my efforts into one of mankind’s greatest movements, I wanted to focus on the people around me. I knew that it was unrealistic to think that someone like me could change the world without majorly fucking it up (I know this might be my lack of self-esteem talking, but bear with me), but I did know that it was possible to improve the experience of life for one person. I can at least change that person’s world for the better.

So what does this have to do with my death? As I told my brother that afternoon, I've always thought that there wouldn’t be a lot of people crying at my funeral. There wouldn’t be so many souls distraught enough to break down in tears. I... just don’t see myself as that significant of a person. Let’s face it – most people I know (at least in my childhood to teenage years) think that I'm some selfish prick who’s way too deep inside his head to be worth shedding tears over. I've never been the charming one, or the funny one (not too many people share my sense of humor), or the one fawned over by legions of classmates and co-workers (that would be my brother). What I'm not is the guy you’re just plain happy to see. I'm not the one people call out to the moment he walks into the room (again, that would be my brother).

Which is why I suspect that if I ever become a disembodied spirit and have a chance to eavesdrop on my own funeral, I'll be hearing a bunch of things I wouldn’t like. For one thing, I'm pretty sure my mother will utter the word “sayang” when talking about me. “Marco was such a smart boy. It’s too bad he never went to med school.” I also know that my mother isn’t the only one who would think so. Others would just mourn the fact that I was gone, and nothing else. I'm not going to be terribly missed by those people because A) They never really got to know the real me; and B) I just wasn’t that likeable. If that’s the case, then I'd have lived a sad experience and probably deserved to die. Maybe that’s why I've always envisioned myself getting run over – at least the tragedy would magnify the impact of my passing and give people something to talk about.

All that, though, would be fine with me if there was someone out there I'd be sure was thankful that they met me; that I made a positive enough imprint on them that their life was actually better for having known me. I want to at least know that there will be at least one person out there who will both shed tears and smile at my funeral. At least then, there’d be substantial evidence that I was loved.

Of course, I know now that there will be a few people like that at my funeral. I know that several people will mourn the loss of someone they truly loved. I know I should be satisfied, but I'm not. I'm young. I can still make a positive imprint on other people’s lives, so why stop now? Why not keep spreading the love, little by little, person by person, until the day you just can’t? I may never become significant for my achievements, but I can make myself significant to other people by loving them.

And so we have the current meaning of my life – to make a positive imprint on the lives of the people I love. No need for grandiose movements, nor for the adulation of masses; I just want to live my life the best I can, by making the lives of those I care about better.

I think that’s worth being open about.

Oh, and about the title – my brother’s reaction to the Sunday talk: “Why are you having a midlife crisis now?”

Oh, the Outcast

2009-08-07T01:35:00.000-07:00

Everyone’s allowed to be emo every once in a while. While some decide to go about it every single day of their lives, with lashes drenched in eyeliner and hair to match...

He needs hugs. And a makeover.

...I prefer to go about these times of emotional vulnerability on a cookie-induced sugar high. And since I’ve apparently hit another wall in work-writing, I may as well use this semi-invisible blog of mine to air out my tiny-in-the-scope-of-the-universe personal issues. Thank you, Internets. Thank you, Fibisco.

I’ve recently been to the Nine Inch Nails concert. Before you think that their sullen lyrics were what got me down, let me assure you that the awesomeness that is Trent Reznor and the rest of the band didn’t have anything to do with my mood. The ultimate power of rock they wielded that evening actually did quite the opposite.

I was infused with the awesomeness streaming forth from a very sweaty Trent Reznor. Glory!

What got me down was the presence of my cousins at the concert. Yeah, they’re my cousins and all, and they’re family and whatnot, but something about being with them gets me down. They kinda make me feel… lonely at times. One of those times came directly after the concert.

I was actually pretty thrilled at first when they called out to me at the concert. Lauren and I had just successfully weaseled our way into the fifth row when I heard a familiar voice calling out my name. Apparently, two of my cousins were watching the concert together. We said our quick hello’s and what-are-you-doing-here’s, and proceeded to watch the show.

After the concert, I wanted to see if I could still catch my cousins outside the Coliseum. While Lauren was catching up with a few of her friends that watched the band display a testament to the power of rock, I went to check if Lauren’s umbrella was still behind the trashcan she chucked it at (lame security at the concert wouldn’t allow it inside. DUDE, people were standing still with their arms crossed at the concert. Not exactly riot material). On the way there, sure enough, I ran into my cousins. I quickly signaled to Lauren that the umbrella was gone (at least it’s keeping some hobo out there dry in this schizophrenic weather we’ve been experiencing), I decide to mingle for a bit with my cousins.

Gah, it was awkward. You know those dreaded moments where the dorky kid with glasses and a pocket protector is just standing there by the cool kids? The moments where it looks like he’s trying to be cool by association, even though he’s clearly not wanted there? I was that kid (sans pocket protector, thank god). I was that kid with my own freaking cousins.

Wait, cookie time.

Anyway, I’ve always had that issue with my cousins. They’ve never really warmed up to me, despite having known me all my life. In fact, a common occurrence at family functions goes as follows:

I sit down at a table with my cousins.

Me: Hello hello!
Cousins: Hi.

(Silence)

Cousins: Where’s your brother?
Me: I dunno.

(Silence)

Me: So… how are we doing?
Cousins: Fine.

(Silence)

My brother arrives at the table.

Cousins: MART!!! (Conversation follows, usually about things I don’t know about because unlike my brother, I'm not asked out by my cousins to go drinking or something)

After a while, my brother leaves the table, either to hunt for more food, or to go to the bathroom. My cousins stare into space. I’ve suddenly gained powers of invisibility, and wait out the awkward silence until my brother returns. When he does return, I rush to the bathroom. I think I may have grown a beard in the unbearably long time he was gone, and want to check.

And it’s always been that way. They’re incredibly warm and loving to my brother and constantly look for his company, so much so that it feels like I don’t even exist by comparison. Hell, I still haven’t really forgotten that New Year’s Eve they decided to ditch my lola’s party and go someplace more fun. They didn’t tell me a thing that night, and it didn’t take me long to notice that I was the only one left in my age group at my lola’s place. It was more of the same after the NIN concert.

Now I couldn’t care less if people didn’t want me around. I’ve got my own friends, I can manage. It’s pretty much been the way I prefer my relationships anyway – I want to surround myself with people who want to be with me. But this is my fucking FAMILY. I can’t just ignore them like the rest of the douches who fail to notice me. They’re going to be around ‘till I die. And so I’m left with two choices – either conform and act like my brother (which usually entails drinking two buckets of beer); or stay how I am, suck it up, and deal with feeling like this for majority of my life. While I do love beer, I can’t shake the other parts of me that aren’t like my brother.

Sigh. I need to meet more people.

And perhaps more cookies.

The Grand Facebook Experiment: 1st Quarter Results

2009-07-28T22:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve been on Facebook for four months now, and if you’ve known me for a while, well… Let’s just see what one of my high school friends had to say about that:

Ah yes. I remember saying once that I would NEVER join a social networking site. To me, it was all just superficial back then. These were the days of Friendster, and all that people were talking about was how many friends they had and how big their networks were. They’d add up people just so a number could somehow validate their popularity.

I didn’t need that. I was never one who cared to be popular. I preferred tightly-knit groups of real friends over swarms of acquaintances, and I was happy that way.

And then the years passed. People came and went. Friends suddenly became these transient beings who spent a portion of their lives with you and moved away. I found myself having less people to hang out with. I felt a little bit lonelier.

I later realized that part of what made me feel lonely was that I consistently felt left out of things. People I saw as friends would know things about each other that I wouldn’t. They’d be speaking of moments together that I was never a part of. Sure, that’s normal in every group, but this was waaaaay too much. I was out of place among my own friends. When I finally asked where these things happened and why I didn’t know of them, it was because it was all talked about online.

Still, I didn’t budge. As much as I wanted to stay in the loop, I wanted to do it on my own terms. I wanted to keep up with my friends by physically being with them. I tried, but I never really succeeded. People get a lot busier after college, and rarely have the time to go out for a few drinks. And so I drifted around, leaping at chances when friends would be free and drinking with them whenever I could.

That’s when I met Lauren. A bit of a romance played out, and we became an item. Shortly after, she became particularly insistent that I open a Facebook account, so that she and her friends could “tag me in peekchurs”. Being the absolute sap that I am, it took that one final romantic push to make me cave in. I opened up a Facebook account.

But not without a bit of a quirk behind it.

I like playing around with things. I like making strange little observations that bear little to no meaning in life, like how the aglets in my new black hoodie have nothing to close the tips off. I’m sorta weird and lame and nerdy that way. I decided that joining this “Facesbooks” was an opportunity to have some weird and lame and nerdy fun.

I proposed to myself an experiment: I wanted to know just how many of my friends would find my Facebook account if I never told them about its existence. There would be a few rules behind this:

   1. I must not tell anyone that I have a Facebook account. I can
       talk about Facebook, but I must never explicitly state that I’m on it. That
       way, people would really have to “find me”

   2. There must be only two exceptions to Rule 1 – two people very dear to
       my heart. That would be Lauren (for obviously sappy reasons) and
       Dodge(who’s been my friend since we wore matching short shorts in
       Kindergarten). And even so, I had to make Dodge go through a bunch of
       hoops and decipher a bunch of clues to discover me. It was fun. :P

   3. I must never add anyone of my own accord, no matter how tempting.

   4. I must not add friends that were suggested to me. I MUST be found by
       them personally.

   5. I must only accept the add requests of people I know. Sorry stranger-
       looking-for-an-online-friend, we can’t be Fezbook buddies.

And so, I set out on this mystical journey of mysticism. I opened with this remark:

Roughly five hours and oodles of tagging me in peekchurs later, the first real action on my wall:

A few days later, I decided to add to the fun. I decided to change my status to celebrate my findings, often with a little bit of my personality thrown into the mix:

And all this has been going on to this day. And so what have I learned from this little experiment?

• Those two really dear people to my heart are responsible for more than half of my friends finding me. I think’s it cute how excited they are to inform people of my existence. It’s heart-warming, really.

• Officemates will add you the moment they see you fiddling around with Facebook instead of working.

• I look ridiculous in pictures.

• I’ve been found by getting tagged in those ridiculous pictures.

• Old friends who never seem to reply to your text messages apparently prefer to do so online.

• People actually react to the random little thoughts you decide to post on your wall.

• There are two ways to lose friends on Facebook – if you act like a completely jerky moron (sorry) and if you’re my sister, who’s removed me TWICE.

• Some friends are too shy to add you on Facebook, despite knowing full well that you have an account.

Let me elaborate on that last one. I’ve got this friend that I was really close with in college. Heck, we even formed a psychic connection on the basketball court. He also opened a Facebook account just this year, and he’s the one I’ve been waiting for to add me.

I’ve made it perfectly clear that I’m on Facebook without explicitly telling him. When he asked about one of our other friends, I told him that the friend seemed sad based on his FACEBOOK account. When he asked me about a certain event, I told him I found out about it through FACEBOOK. The man knows I’ve got an account.

When he opened his, one of the first things he did was ask me if I had one. HE ASKED ME IF I HAD ONE. So what did I tell him? This: “Um, whenever someone asks me that question, all I can say is ‘I can’t answer that question’.” It’s painfully obvious that he knows, but would rather have me tell him directly. Is it some sort of weird self-esteem thingy? Does he want to know if I consider him enough of a friend to add him? Dude, you’re one of my bestest college friends! JUST FRAKKING ADD ME ALREADY!!!

*huff huff*

And so the experiment continues. If you see this man...

...don’t tell him about this post.

At least not directly.

For the sake of, um, science.

Thank you.

How Not Completely Growing Up Made Me a Better Adult

2009-07-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

I’m pretty different from the person that I was back when I was a kid. Back then, I was one of the class shrimps, posing in front of pictures ‘cause I was the among the shortest. Now, I stand a little bit taller than the average Filipino. When I was younger, I had the straightest, most manageable head of hair, the envy of women and wannabe shampoo commercial models. Now, I shave off the tangled dead animal I pass off as hair. I was one of the school’s top students back when I was a kid. Now, I’m the poster boy for academic underachievement. Yessiree, the person I am now barely resembles the boy who used to wear my too-short shorts.

There’s one thing, though, that I’ve never matured from. And I’m glad I never did.

If you manage to hunt down my elementary school yearbook, you’ll find a bunch of prepubescent boys with quotes following their names. That was because we were asked to submit what we thought were mottos for our lives. While most kids dived into the quote books and dug out the sayings they most identified with (I’ll never understand those who picked “Time is Gold”. Really? That’s your motto in life?), I chose to go the pretentious route and make up my own quote. It just felt right to me if your motto in life was something you believed in because you lived it. Following what someone else thought was the right way of life just didn’t make sense to me – everyone is different, so why would someone else’s words characterize how you live?

And so I took some time to really reflect on what I felt would define my approach to life. This isn’t something a 12-year-old should be trying, but again, I was a pretentious little bugger. After much thought, I came up with something, and I pretty much fell in love with it. I’m not sure what the exact words are anymore, but it went something like this:

“Respect, trust, and love are things earned when they’re given.”

It’s a pretty naïve outlook towards life, if you think about it. What I was trying to say in those 10 simple words was that so long as you respect, trust, and love people, you’re going to be respected, trusted, and loved back. If you’re going to follow this advice in the sense that I meant all those years ago, you’ve got to do this unconditionally. To make it even more naïve, I also meant that you should follow this tidbit with all your heart.

Of course, I never realized back then that this was the kind of thinking that left someone open to abuse. How many people hold the utmost respect for others only to be bullied by them? How many people have given others their complete trust, only to be betrayed? How many people out there have loved someone fearlessly and dearly, only to find that love unreciprocated? It happens to everyone, and it just plain sucks when it does.

And yet, as I grew up, I found myself following my own advice, despite my increased maturity. I still approached people this way to the best of my ability, and it’s damaged me. I’ve been disrespected by people I’ve held in high regard more times than I’d care to remember. I’ve trusted a bunch of people with too many things, but I’ve had that trust broken again and again. Love? I’ve loved someone with all my heart, and she dumped me after three years.

But I stood by my motto. With my heart in overdrive, I’ve made myself vulnerable to all the emotional pain that I’ve endured so far. I should be jaded, but I’m not. Why the hell do I continue to follow the motto of a 12-year-old, then? Because despite all the hardships I’ve endured by exposing myself like that, I truly believe it works if you stick with it. It’s all a matter of how you look at it.

Sure, people disrespect other people. And yes, some individuals are just undeserving of respect. It’s the hardest thing to do, to find respect for those who show a complete lack of regard for you. I myself haven’t really followed this completely. But when I do, I find that the respect doesn’t necessarily have to come from those people. If you still find the ability to respect those you should despise, you find a newfound respect for yourself. You’ve just made yourself the bigger man. And honestly, self-respect is a vastly-underrated virtue. What’s so great about it is that not only do you end up liking yourself more as a person, but people will see that in you and respect you for that.

Trust is the same. The good thing about trust is that it’s got a reflective nature – show people that you trust them, and they have reason to trust you. Not only that, but acting in a trustworthy fashion helps you trust yourself. It shouldn’t matter if your trust is broken; you’re someone people can trust, and that’s something to be proud of.

Last, but definitely not the least (especially to a sap like me), is love. Of the three things I mentioned in that quote, this is the one that leaves you open to the worst pain. I’m a fucking romantic. I believe the only love worth feeling is when you completely give yourself into the emotion, and so I know how wonderful it can feel to love someone with everything you are. I also know how soul-crushing it can feel when the person you give your overflowing heart to takes it for granted.

That’s the thing about love, though – you really just have to put yourself out there. You can’t expect to be loved if you don’t love someone. And if you want it to be of any real value, you’ve got to love with everything you can muster. You’re going to get your heart broken, yes, and you’re going to set yourself up for more. But when you find that someone who doesn’t break your heart, and who loves you back, it’s just… overwhelming. Love, when reciprocated, is happiness; throw-yourself-into-it love that’s reciprocated is bliss, and that’s the kind of love you want to earn.

I don’t really care if people think I’m just being idealistic. I don't care if this is a poorly-written testimony to my naïveté. I don't even care if this all makes sense or not. I’m blissful right now.

That's right - this is all a thousand-word declaration that I'M IN LOVE!!! BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I HAVE WASTED YOUR TIME WITH MY RANDOM SAPPERY!!!

*cough*

My 12-year-old self's motto is awesome.

Stay Down, Steve Rogers

2009-07-16T10:02:00.000-07:00

Zombies are cool. There’s nothing the walking dead can’t add any spice to. Boring movie? Toss a few zombies in for laughs and gore galore! Tired of watching grass grow? Break out a copy of Plants vs. Zombies and defend your Lawn of the Dead! Feel like having a team-building activity? Try surviving Left 4 Dead’s zombie apocalypse in multiplayer. Heck, even things like haikus and literary classics become a lot more fun when you inject a little Romero into them.

It’s a fantastic thing, then, that we live an age where mainstream comics have learned the value of zombification. You don’t need to resort to lesser-known titles (to the mainstream, at least) like The Walking Dead and Wormwood, Gentleman Corpse to get your daily dose of death. Marvel’s been whipping out Marvel Zombies books left and right, while DC’s making our favorite form of worm food the main focus of this year’s major company-wide crossover event, The Blackest Night (which is fucking AWESOME!!!). Yessiree, it’s a great time to rise from the grave.

Except for you, Steve Rogers.

I absolutely detest the fact that Marvel has decided to bring Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, back to life in the Captain America: Reborn event. Sure, I suppose it’s inevitable with such an iconic character, but seriously – why can’t he just stay dead? Out of all the superhero deaths I’ve read, his meant the most. Superman died fighting Doomsday, a creature without rhyme or reason. The Flash, Jean Grey, and a host of other heroes died in an effort to save the Earth/universe/all of existence. Hell, we’ve had heroes die to cancer.

But Steve Rogers? His death had much more purpose than being a glorified act of fictional martyrdom. His death came about as a repercussion of Marvel’s Civil War, an examination of the shitstorm that’s bound to happen when egotistical superpowers believe that their actions are for the good of the entire world.

For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s a crash course: A superhero adventure went awry and ended up in a massive explosion that killed over 600 innocent civilians. Tony Stark, aka Iron Man, became head of pretty much the world’s most powerful security agency. Working hand in hand with the US government, he helped enforce the Superhuman Registration Act, a method for the government to regulate and police the activities of all superhumans by mandating that they register their secret identities.

More than a few superheroes balked at this idea. This was, after all, a gigantic violation of their rights. Stark, however, was adamant about enforcing the Act, and rallied pro-Registration heroes to his side. He then began to pursue and imprison the superhumans who were fighting for their right to ensure the safety of their loved ones.

Needless to say, this caused a lot of infighting among the superhero community. The act was heavily debated, to the point that the whole thing was an enormous gray area. Still, lines were drawn, and a superhero civil war broke out. On the pro-Registration side was Tony Stark. On the anti-Registration side, none other than Marvel’s very own sentinel of liberty – Captain America, the World War II hero who was a living, breathing representation of the country that now wanted to deprive him of his rights. One plot twist after another soon followed, and the battle was eventually taken to the streets.

The fighting had caused heavy damage to the city, and it didn’t take long for Steve Rogers to realize that innocent lives were being endangered. Being the Boy Scout that he was, he called for a ceasefire and turned himself in. He gave himself up because he knew that all this squabbling was going to end up killing innocents.

And so Steve Rogers was brought to trial. As he was leaving the courthouse, he was shot by a sniper and was killed in the chaos that quickly ensued.

His death never resolved anything, fittingly enough. In a rare moment of comic realism, the two factions never got together and gave each other hugs. They never kissed and made up. All his passing gave the world was a brief reprieve from its own selfish clusterfucks, a moment of silence for the only hero who chose to act like one throughout this entire ordeal.

The events of Civil War drew many comparisons to today’s superpowers and their self-proclaimed duty to police the world. They wage wars over political ideals, never backing down because of their fervent beliefs of what’s right for the world. Yet, in the wake of these superior forces, innocents are dying. Is policing the world really worth destroying it? Steve Rogers said a soft, solemn “No,” and he paid for it with his life.

Steve Rogers died because he believed there had to be a better way of resolving things. To the very end, he was making a statement: that he, a super-soldier, a human being genetically modified to be an instrument of war, saw beyond the political ideologies that ran rampant in a messed-up world and realized that it wasn’t worth it; not when it’s destroying everything they sought to protect in the first place.

And now Marvel wants to ruin all that by bringing him back to life? Give a (fictional) man his piece, will ya? We all know that when he comes back to life, the death will be a footnote to his existence. It’s happened with EVERYONE. I mean, who cares that Superman ever died these days? Who? No one; and the same will happen with good old Mr. Rogers. Sigh.

End tree-hugging hippie fanboy rant here. Thank you.

Axl Rose Helped Me Find a Girlfriend

2009-07-15T00:13:00.000-07:00

One of the great things of what I’m doing for a living is that writing inane prattle like this actually helps me on the job. They say that if you want to get started on writing, go do some writing. I’ve found this advice to be incredibly useful, especially to get my mojo flowing. Now that I’ve appeared to hit a bit of work-writer’s block, it’s time to write whatever it is that’s on my mind.

And that, my dear friends, is where our title comes in.

I honestly believe that Axl Rose, legendary frontman of ONE OF THE GREATEST BANDS EVER, helped me get into the relationship I’m currently in. We never met, I never emailed him for tips on dating (which, I imagine, would begin with “Step 1: Get her drunk."), nor did I win Lauren’s heart by serenading her with my rendition of “Paradise City”. No, this is way more unnecessarily convoluted than that.

I grew up listening to Guns n’ Roses, among many others. Back when my mind was still a musical tabula rasa, my older brother and his same-age cousin were raving all about them. They played them constantly on their cassette players (this was before those CD-doohickeys rendered them obsolete). Even though our parents frowned upon the band for their occasional use of colorful language, there was no stopping them. GNR was the pure, liberating power of rock and roll. Understandably, then, they became my early childhood definition of AWESOME.

As I got a little bit older, I’d learn that a few of my GNR favorite songs were “revivals” – our early term for covers – of popular songs from those mysterious years that came before I was born. “What is this blasphemy?” I thought to myself. Surely nothing this fantabulous existed when dull, boring, non-GNR-loving adults were young. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be so dull, boring and – worst of all – non-GNR-loving.

It stung to be proven wrong. My brother had made a mixtape for our road trips, and I was quite shocked to hear my dad singing along to “Live and Let Die”. He explained to us that it was remake of a popular song by some dude named Paul McCartney (Who the hell?) and a band called Wings (NOT Guns n’ Roses). I then went on to learn that “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door” was another revival (Bob Dylan). This got me curious – what other songs out there were based on old music?

Turns out that two of my favorite songs at the time, Ugly Kid Joe’s “Cats in the Cradle” and Mr. Big’s “Wild World”, were written by the same man: Cat Stevens. I was young and all, but I knew from the lyrics of those songs that whoever this Cat person was, he was a good writer. And so I decided to give the originals a listen. I fell in love with them immediately.

Since then, I’ve been sampling the many tastes that retro music had to offer. I tripped out to Jimmy Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” and worshipped Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man”. I felt the pains of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” and marched off in righteous indignation to Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall”. I even grew an appreciation for Elton John’s music from long before The Lion King made him relevant to my generation. No matter how good the songs were, though, I always had a soft spot for Cat Stevens and his genuine, folksy sound.

Fast-forward fifteen years later, and I’m a socially-inept 22 year-old virgin. I had just met this amazing girl named Lauren, but since I absolutely lack any serious game, my expectations are low. In one of our early dates, I ask her my fallback, hey-I’m-cool-enough-to-carry-a-conversation question – “What music do you listen to?”. She mentions, among other things, folksy music, the kind you find among certain Indie bands and dead 70s artists.

Folk? From the 70s? My inner douche was bumping my fist and proclaiming “SCORE!” at the top of his lungs. I knew right then and there that, aside from liking zombies, this unbelievably amazing girl and I would have a lot more in common.

It’d be a few more months and a sappy trip to La Union before it would occur to me to let her listen to some Cat Stevens. By then, we were blissfully in love, and discovered oodles of things we had in common. Sure, these things would have naturally come about in the course of our relationship, but music is a big thing to me. One of my most ideal romantic moments involves rocking out to the same music together and singing your lungs out to one of your favorite songs. The potential to do that with Lauren gave me a lot more confidence in a relationship with her. The rest is cheesy, mushy history.

And so, by great leaps in logic, that is how Axl Rose helped me get into my current state of happiness. For those of you who don’t want to put up with the length of my ramblings, here they are in flowchart form:

Axl Rose is the vocalist of Guns n’ Roses → GNR is AWESOME → GNR did covers → I got curious about covers → Learned about Cat Stevens → Learned to appreciate old music and 70s folk → Met Lauren → Learned Lauren likes folk → Gained confidence → ♥

Ah rambling… You bring out the incoherent sap in me.

And now, back to work.

Eulogy for a Stranger

2009-07-08T02:28:00.001-07:00

It’s logically absurd, mourning for someone you didn’t know. Why shed a tear for a person, who by all accounts, lived in a world that was impossible for you to reach? You never met this person, never shook his hand, never spoke to him. All you’ve ever seen of him were pictures and videos, dots of colored ink and pixels that could never really quite capture his true presence. Why should you care about him and his passing, if you didn’t know the guy?

That’s just the thing. Michael Jackson was there since the day I was born, a global phenomenon before I breathed my first breath. I grew up knowing him as a universal constant, his music and moves assaulting my senses before I could even register what they meant. He was one of those things that my generation was just born accustomed to. For as long as I can remember, I felt his presence in the world around me.

He was always there. When I would visit my cousin’s house as a kid, we’d crowd around the television to watch the video for “Leave Me Alone”. When I got my first Walkman, I permanently damaged my hearing by blasting “Bad” through my earphones. When we’d have our weekly family mini-reunions on Sundays, we’d play our newly-purchased “Dangerous” CDs on my aunt’s sound system.

I grew up trying to master the Moonwalk, and celebrated when I figured out how to spin like him. I was enthralled by the video for “Black or White”, which provided the extra thrill of starring Macaulay Culkin. It was just so damn amazing to watch him take on another global phenom, Michael Jordan, in the video for “Jam”. I often daydreamed about what it would be like to live in Neverland, with all my childhood idols, and the rides, and Bubbles the Chimp.

He was inescapable. MTV constantly played documentaries covering his life. Local shows like Eat Bulaga! and Lunch Date usually had celebrities covering his earlier hits. My favorite Mad Magazine digests were piled with jokes about him and parodies of his music, often playing on the fact that his pearly-white complexion used to be that of a black man (which, of course, I never fully understood until much later). Even in videogames, my earliest addiction, he made his presence felt with “Moonwalker”.

My brother told me the secret of the gravity-defying lean in the music video for “Smooth Criminal”, a fact I shared with some of my earliest friends. At one of our programs in Kindergarten, my class performed “Heal the World” in sign language, when wearing white gloves was the coolest thing ever. On the way home from school, I’d listen to “Will You Be There” on the Discman given to me by my uncle from Thailand, whom I had met for the first time.

When the first child molestation charges were filed against him, I was stunned. I vehemently denied the claims despite the alleged evidence. There was no way such an awesome person could do such a heinous act. To my young mind, it was impossible.

As I turned 10, the molestation became a non-issue when word came around that the Philippines was going to be a stop on his HIStory world tour. The man was coming HERE. I had seen MC Hammer, I watched the then-WWF live performances with great excitement, but nothing at all compared to sheer anticipation of the icon’s visit to our tiny nation.

We ended up watching it from a distance, high up in one of the buildings surrounding the stage. The place itself was bare, my parents were enviously down on the concert grounds, and my 7-11 hotdog had gone stale, but I didn’t give a hoot about any of that. There he was, Michael Jackson himself, strutting like no tomorrow and performing his hits like the phenomenon he was. It didn’t matter to me that he looked like an ant on the stage from that distance – I was in the same area as the greatest entertainer of my generation. Nothing, not a single thing, could’ve been better.

I watched as his career hit its twilight. From being portrayed as an eccentric genius, the man became a freak show, the butt of too many jokes. I admit I was swept by the fray and joked along. I consoled myself in the fact that no matter what kind of a weirdo he seemed to be, there was no questioning his talent.

As he got less and less airplay, I wondered if he would ever be the same. Sure, artists come and go, but this was THE artist. He was the measure by which I compared all other artists. His genius continued to influence artists born generations after him, and rightfully so. You can imagine my delight, then, when he tried to ignite a comeback with “Invincible”. When the video for “You Rock My World” debuted, I was overjoyed to see him back in form, sporting an outfit reminiscent of the one he wore for “Smooth Criminal”. Sure he was a bit slower, but the man could still move. My childhood idol was back.

Or so I thought. Controversy bombarded him in the Baby over the Balcony incident, the Bashir Interview, the second allegation of sexual abuse, and his own bizaare behavior during the court proceedings. The freak show, unfortunately, had never left. Despite all this, I had always hoped that once things blew over, he’d find his way back to the top and take his rightful place as the King of Pop.

The comeback never happened. He passed away before he could even start it.

More than a week has passed since that tragic day, and it’s only now that I speak my mind about it. I had reacted when he died, saying that the passing of the legend took a part of my childhood away with him, but I never fully expressed how I felt. His death never really sunk in until the memorial service ended with that empty spotlight on the stage.

And so, finally, I truly mourn the loss of Michael Jackson. Even though I never really met the guy, he has been so prevalent in my life that a tiny part of myself feels like I knew him. He has been there my entire life, a constant I took for granted until his last days on Earth. The man we’ve always loved, and at times hated, ever since we could remember, is gone.

Despite what others may say, we knew him. We knew him through his music and his lyrics. He spoke to us about love, life, and what they meant to him. He shared with us his ideals of devotion and romance, of peace and understanding, and of the childlike innocence he so strongly valued. He opened his heart to us about the pains of his life, lashing out in frustration at those who wanted a piece of him, and then later begging us to love and understand him. Despite the secrecy with which he guarded his life, despite his eccentric reclusion, he was always reaching out to us, telling the world who he was, what he’s been through, and what he’s felt.

We may never know him as his family did, or as his closest friends did. We may never know what he was like behind the disguises, surgical masks, and umbrellas. We may never meet the person he was off-stage. But we knew him through his music, enough to realize how much of a loss his passing was. To those of us who listened – really listened – we knew him.

I Have Seen the Anti-Christ

2009-06-22T01:15:00.000-07:00

Sometime around high school, a friend had shown me irrefutable proof that Barney, the Big Purple Dinosaur who’d lull me to sleep with his hypnotic singing voice, was in fact a Satanic figurehead for the corruption of children. I always thought the creature’s bizarre rituals were akin to a child molester's training video, and so this claim piqued my interest. How so, oh dear high school friend, was the big old Pedosaurus Satan’s gift to the world? “Simple,” he said, grabbing a pen. “Barney is

A CUTE PURPLE DINOSAUR”

It pleased me to note that my friend’s keen sense of observation was as astute as ever. Go on, I urged him.

“Now waaaay back in Ancient Roman times, there was no letter U. The letter V was used in its place, making Barney

A CVTE PVRPLE DINOSAVR”

I stopped to think for a moment what those fiddle-playing pasta eaters had to do with Barney, but quickly remembered that this was high school logic playing out. And so my friend continued:

“Since we’re talking about Ancient Rome, let’s isolate the Roman numerals in that phrase, shall we? That leaves us with

C V V L D I V”

“Now add it all up,” he said. I promptly brought out my Roman Numeral Calculator and did the conversions:

I = 1
V = 5
L = 50
C = 100
D = 500

So

C + V + V + L + D + I + V = 100 + 5 + 5 + 50 + 500 + 1 + 5 = 666!

HOLY CRAP! BARNEY IS 666!

Of course, that was completely pointless. It does illustrate, however, that with enough stretches of the imagination, people can find whatever they want to find in just about anything. If you look hard enough for the devil, you can find him (or her) in the most mundane things.

So why bring this up? It’s because I’ve been playing a bunch of Pokemon recently, which is the second of two things I’ve enjoyed that were accused of being Satanic material (the first being Magic: the Gathering). Now, Magic, I can understand – in its early days, the art was a lot less censored, and there was even a pentagram depicted in the card Unholy Strength. But Pokemon? Cute little furry critters that you catch in tiny balls? Oh please. I find it hard to believe that a creature named “Jigglypuff” will lead to the eternal damnation of my soul.

And yet I’ve read of others who were convinced that Pokemon were infernal spawns of evil sent forth to defile the souls of all mankind. I remember getting an email from a concerned parent back when Pokemania was running rampant that warned of demonic possession taking hold of her Pokemon-crazed son. She was terrified to discover her child speaking in a raspy almost-whisper, uttering a word unheard of in any language. “Bubba-zoar, bubba-zoar,” he said, clearly taken over by a malicious force from the depths of Hell. The kid, of course, was just copying the Pokemon Bulbasaur who, in the anime, has a tiny little raspy voice and can only speak his name. If the mother had just freaking been watching what her kid was watching, she’d have known that before breaking into a fundamentalist Christian panic.

I know that when I do become a parent, I’m going to spend actual time with my kids and watch what they like to watch. I’m not going to be like that mother who probably was too busy with her own life to get to know the things her kid liked. You’re going to see me chilling out with my kids in front of the TV, laughing along to their generation’s equivalent of Spongebob Squarepants. Why? Because I’ll actually give a damn about my kids. Shame on you, fundamentalist Christian mother who’s out of touch with her own son; shame on you.

And yes, I realize I’m far too old to still be playing Pokemon. I’m also a little too old to be watching Chowder and Ben 10. But you know what? It’s fun keeping in touch with your inner child. It sure as hell makes relating with tomorrow’s leaders a whole lot more interesting.

P.S. Two straight posts without cursing! Fuck yeah!

P.P.S. Oh shit.

Selling Ted Out

2009-05-31T22:40:00.000-07:00

Why is it that when something enters mainstream consciousness, it suddenly seem to become a lot less cool?

I remember when Neil Gaiman’s Sandman was a beautifully-kept secret of the Geekdom Illuminati, a wonderful piece of visual prose that had existed below the common fanboy’s radar for decades. Suddenly, with the release of the book’s collected volumes, everyone and his cousin was reading about Dream and the rest of the Endless. In fact, when Gaiman came to visit a few years ago for a local event, he was quite literally swarmed by legions of his readers.

Now a few who had been reading the series before it erupted into the mainstream reacted in different ways. Some were suddenly cooler than they actually were, just for having read the book before the rest of us did. Others violently protested against the Sandman’s sudden boom in popularity, wishing that the book stayed a secret known only to the purest of comic book geeks. Whichever side you belonged to, if you were one of those who were early readers of the series, I’m guessing you couldn’t help but feel that the series lost a bit of its allure when its sales increased astronomically.

There’s a little bit of romanticism behind knowing of something that others don’t. It’s like a secret tropical paradise – it’s more precious when less people know about it. The more people know about your heavenly beach getaway, the more will come to visit. The more people that come to visit, the more businesses come to capitalize on its popularity. As it becomes more and more commercialized, even more people come to party in the summer months. The place gets loud and raucous and dirty, and your favorite beach, while still a premium spot for tourists, becomes a lot cheaper (I’m looking at you, Boracay). In the end, it all boils down to one scenario – the more people who know about it, the more people will spoil it.

Now I’m not saying that the same will follow for Gaiman’s work. You have to admit, however, that you now can’t go to a local bookstore without seeing his name. Comic book snobs (especially those who make it a point to refer to the books as “graphic novels”, which really is just a snootier term for what they are) shudder at the thought of your regular old Juan de la Cruz perusing the shelves and picking up a copy of Neverwhere just because it has “Dat Gay-mahn Guy’s” name on it. They call Coraline’s cinematic release a crime against nature, because of the addition of a character new to the beloved source material.

But I ask, what the hell is so bad about that? What’s wrong with more people appreciating what you do? I’m not entirely sure, but from my experience, there are about two reasons why aficionados dislike their goods entering the mainstream.

One is that they may envision the secret beach scenario I illustrated above. They fear the emergence of *gasp* Sandman charms for Crocs or *gasp again* Delirium popping up in an episode of Hannah Montana or *be still my raging heart* some other disgustingly mass-marketed product.

Another is that they run out of self-perceived “coolness”. With Sandman out in the mainstream, the comic snobs can’t scoff at the common fan’s fascination with colorful spandex and explosions. They can’t ridicule people for enjoying comic books’ equivalent of Michael Bay movies when everyone else is reading the works of Neil Gaiman, Alan Moore, Grant Morrison and Frank Miller, among other fantastic writers. They lose the ability to say “Psssh. You read X-men? If you want to read real comics… excuse me, Graphic Novels, you should read what I read.” It seems as though knowing about something that others don’t is a status symbol, a step up in the hierarchy of coolness.

Honestly, I’ve felt this way before, but I’ve always consoled myself in the very fact that more people are reading the stuff. So what if crappy adaptations take liberties with the source material (I still hate X-men Origins: Wolverine, by the way)? So what if your hyper-trendy next-door neighbor buys a few trade paperbacks of the Sandman solely because “everybody’s reading it”? I think it’s good that everybody’s reading it, because that means their tastes are improving, and if the taste of the mainstream as a whole improves, so does the quality of work the major corporations choose to publish. Your little snobby secrets are helping make everything better.

It’s because of this that I want to sell Ted the Bug out.

Ted is a character in one of my favorite titles, Bone. Drawn and written by the extremely talented Jeff Smith, Bone tells the story of three cousins and their adventures in a valley of fascinating people and creatures. The tale begins with Fone Bone, Phoney Bone and Smiley Bone being driven out of their hometown following a disastrous event involving Phoney’s ambitions and some bad prunes. Lost in the wilderness and desperate for water, they chance upon a crudely-drawn map before being separated by a swarm of locusts. Fone Bone is able to hold onto the map and finds his way to the valley, where he meets Ted, the possum kids, a cigar-smoking dragon, a pair of stupid, stupid rat creatures, and Thorn, a young farm girl living with her grandmother.

Despite its simple, almost cartoon-ish start, the story develops into an epic journey, with an ages-old battle that extends into the dream-world and an unbelievable discovery about Thorn’s past. Jeff Smith masterfully melds the animated whimsy of early Disney cartoons with Tolkien-esque fantasy in his storytelling, while his art explodes with dynamism and expressiveness in every panel. The tale is full of wonder, charm, terror and humor, and is, in my opinion, a classic for all ages. The art and storytelling is simple enough to be read as a bedtime story, but the themes, plot and dialogue can be appreciated by any age group. It’s hard to find a story that can capture the emotions behind love’s regret and the corrupting influence of power in such a quaint, well-done package.

The critics agree, too. The winner of 10 (TEN!!!) Eisner awards and 11 (ELEVEN!!!) Harvey Awards, Bone was named one of Time Magazine’s Ten Greatest Graphic Novels. Scholastic acquired the rights to publish Bone in 2004, and just finished publishing the last volume in January 2009. What’s great about the Scholastic editions, and what sets them apart from Smith’s independent Cartoon Books label's editions, is that the series has been colored by award-winning colorist Steve Hamaker.

I realize I’m gushing about a comic book, but I really do want more people to read it. It’s a fantastic piece for all ages, and if I can get even just one person who chances upon this little bit of binary code on the vast universe that is the Internet, I’ll be happy.

I’m also writing this because Lauren gave me the most awesome gift for my birthday: The Art of Bone. I really love seeing Jeff Smith’s work in progress, and he’s been one of my biggest inspirations in the field of comics. To think that he’d been drawing these characters since his early childhood, and was able to develop them into a wonderful work of modern visual literature is just amazing to me, and I can only hope to achieve what he's accomplished with his dreams.

I am being such a fanboy right now it’s not even funny. But really, if you do so happen to read this post, read Bone as well. You’re going to love it.

All I Need's Just a Pair of Wheels

2009-05-04T05:46:00.000-07:00

I sometimes wish I could wear spandex.

And spritz hairspray all over my long, unkempt mane.

And grab my crotch on stage.

I've got a love for cheesy rock anthems, the kind that sets your soul on fire with motivational words, emboldening guitar chords, and ultimately ends up as the main theme on movie soundtracks. For as long as I can remember, I've been performing hits like "Eye of the Tiger", "Blaze of Glory", and "All for Love" in the sanctity of my shower. There's just something about these songs that makes me feel (dare I say it?) alive.

Perhaps it's the catchy tunes the songs typically hold. Maybe the incredibly cheesy lyrics strike a familiar chord with me (I mean, have you read the previous entry?). It might even be the fact that these songs are best sung from the chest, belted out like a primal affirmation of modern masculinity. Whatever it is, I've been hard-pressed to find music that's so unabashedly emotional.

And so my fantasies are better explained: the spandex is for the outfits the bands used to wear back in the anthems' heyday; the hairspray for the hairstyle that goes with the costume; and the crotch-grabbing for me to be able to hit those really high notes. I absolutely love these songs and love singing them. Hell, I don't know the lyrics to most of them, but I will audibly mumble along to the choruses.

What makes me enjoy them is the incredible passion behind them. Yeah, it's probably all commercialized mainstream money-making hogwash, but it's pretty fucking effective. I can feel the fire burning in my eyes whenever I hear one of these bad boys playing. I can feel myself standing up, pumping my chest, and belting out this declaration of my manhood. I am the man who will fight for your honor, goddammit!

So what's the point of all this lame drivel? I've decided to actually listen to one of the songs, and not just ride the wave of awesomeness it brings to my senses. The song of choice is the now-classic "Man in Motion" by John Parr, main theme of 80s brat pack flick "St. Elmo's Fire." I mean, take a look at some of those lyrics:

I can see a new horizon underneath the blazin' sky
I'll be where the eagle's flying higher and higher
Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels
Take me where my future's lyin', St. Elmo's Fire

I can climb the highest mountain, cross the wildest sea
I can feel St. Elmo's Fire burnin' in me, burnin' in me

Just once in his life a man has his time
and my time is now, I'm coming alive

I can hear the music playin', I can see the banners fly
Feel like you're back again, and hope ridin' high
Gonna be your man in motion, all I need is a pair of wheels
Take me where my future's lyin', St. Elmo's Fire

How does that not make you want to make something of yourself? How? John Parr has awakened something in me that no other 80s singer, not even Rick-fucking-Astley, can ever hope to bring out.

See, I'm going to quit my job soon, and among other unfortunate things, one thing that's been holding me back from finally telling the bosses to shove it is the fear that I might be making a mistake. I don't want to leave my job thinking it's holding me back, only to find out that I made a mistake. I don't want to see myself as an idealistic young tool whose ambition got the better of him. And yet, I do know that the company isn't going to take me anywhere. In the end, all that's left is my fear of changing things to which I've grown accustomed.

Well, to fuck with that. I'm going to be a man in motion. I'm going seek those new horizons underneath the blazing sky. I am going to soar with the eagles (but stay a Lasallian!) and take a mighty flying dump on the occupational wasteland I'll be leaving behind. Hell, I might be making a huge mistake, but I'm young, and I know that things will get better than what they are now eventually, even if I do end up taking a step backward. Hell yeah I can feel it burning in me! AWWWW YEEEEAAHHH!!!

Also, I really do need a pair of wheels. I'll probably need to learn how to drive first. AND I WILL, BITCHES. I WILL.

Hello, Doormat

2009-04-29T23:26:00.000-07:00

I never thought I’d be doing this again. However, thanks to Lauren’s machinations and discovery of my now-defunct blog (which can be seen in all its cached glory if you look for it), I’ve decided to take another crack at invading the internet.

Because she insisted I did.

If you knew me well, you’d know that I highly favor the female of the species, to the point that I do ridiculous things to make sure they’re safe, happy, and comfortable. A few shiny examples include carting them off on wheelchairs all around the university campus just so they wouldn’t have to hobble around on a sprained ankle; taking a cab with them all the way to far, far Marikina at around 3am just so they wouldn’t have to take a cab all the way to far, far Marikina at around 3am alone; and covering myself in dust as I rifled through archaic school files to find that one essay I wrote in English class that they asked to read again. I will also, apparently, start a blog because they asked me to.

Alpha males around the world would be aghast at my confessions of such… pansy-ness, but I don’t really mind. In fact, I’ll say it out loud: I FAVOR WOMEN. I do my best to ensure they feel nice and dandy about themselves and the world around them. I will swallow my pride, wash the dishes, lend my jackets, take the danger side while crossing the street, stay up listening while the guy they’re dating is sleeping off his drunken stupor, give back rubs, offer a shoulder to cry on, and even involve myself in their shopping should they ask. And all this without the slightest thought of getting into their pants.

But this doesn’t make me a doormat. Hell no. I respect myself too much. I do what I do because I respect the women, too. They are incredible human beings and deserve to be treated as such. Here are a few reasons why:

1. They Do a LOT of Shit
Gone are the days of house wenches. Women these days are more than capable of doing what we guys do, and are an integral part of our society. They work in just about every industry one can think of and yet they find the time to put up with our (stereotypical) man-shit, like the aversion to housekeeping. So why not help? If you’re lucky enough to have your lady cook for the two of you, do the damn dishes. Help her open cans and chop stuff. The busy man of the 1950’s cannot expect to be babied anymore – everyone is busy these days, so everyone deserves to have their load lightened, even just a little bit.

Don’t even get me started on child-bearing…

2. They Give a Damn, and Aren’t Afraid to Show It
I personally find it hard to open up to guys. There’s something about how women look more for an emotional connection rather than just information in conversations that is just a hell of a lot more satisfying. And what guy doesn’t love getting those “Awwww”s and hugs the ladies seem to be so proficient at when he’s letting off some steam?

The ladies aren’t afraid to show they care about you, and that’s what makes them great. They give a shit about whether or not the cut of your shirt makes you look fat. They care enough to realize that there are times when you just want someone to listen and not offer any advice when you rant. The subtle inflections in their voices and tiny twitches on their faces let you know that maybe buying several chainsaws to hang as decorations in your room isn’t the most practical (or even smartest) thing to do, but they give a fuck about your feelings, so they do their damn best to manage these nuances of human interaction.

They’re awesome because they care. Period.

3. They are Lovely
Yeah.

4. They Widen Our Worlds
Women have this whole other spectrum of fun that most guys typically avoid, because either A) it’s just too feminine and I’ll be gay for doing it, or B) society tells us it’s A. We men tend to veer ourselves away from ballroom dancing, romantic comedies, and getting a manicure. But when we allow ourselves to open up and let the ladies take us to these things, we discover that the tango is actually pretty fun (sexy, too), that we can take a few tips from Hugh Grant on being charming bastards, and that pampering your nails is actually more relaxing than it sounds.

5. They Make Us Smarter
When the ladies don’t directly say what they want, it can be frustrating. Fights can happen and grudges formed when you don’t get her that vintage jewelry she’s been hinting about for her birthday. And yet, deep down, you have to admit that you learn from these experiences. You learn to decipher the hints, and you eventually develop a knack for knowing what would make people happy without them even asking. You learn to read and deal with people better.

Oh, and they tend to read more, too. They make our brains more smarter.

I can say so much more, but this has gone on for far too long as it is. The bottom line is this – I believe women make our lives better, and so I feel we should try our best to do the same for them. It isn’t about chivalry (or, god forbid, chauvinism). It’s about acknowledging how they affect our lives and appreciating them. So hurrah for women and all that; give them the love they deserve and do things for them.

And that is why I’m writing again.