The High School Girl Syndrome; or, Haters Gonna Hate

***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.

Read on >

Anti-antipinoy

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.

Read on >

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

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.

Read on >

Catching Airplanes

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.

Read on >

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

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.

Read on >

Happy Birthday

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.

Read on >

Lookie, Lookie! More Wasted Binary Code!

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!

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I Think I Might Secretly Be Fifty Years Old

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?”

Read on >

Oh, the Outcast

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.

Read on >

How Not Completely Growing Up Made Me a Better Adult

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.

Read on >

Axl Rose Helped Me Find a Girlfriend

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.

Read on >

Eulogy for a Stranger

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.

Read on >

I Have Seen the Anti-Christ

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.

Read on >

All I Need's Just a Pair of Wheels

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.

Read on >

Hello, Doormat

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.

Read on >