Three names you go by:
1. Diana
2. Ness
3. Bakbak [Mranao word for 'hammer', given me by my nephews because of my affinity for big mobile phones]
Three screen names you have had:
1. Baby Rockstar
2. Jiana Banana
3. Pugad Baboy
physical things you like about yourself:
1. Feet
2. Eyebrows
3. Hair
physical things you don't like about yourself:
1. Fingernails [too small]
2. Cellulite [god-dayym]
3. knees
Three parts of your heritage:
1. Mranao
2. Filipino [Mranao]
3. Yemen
Three things that scare you:
1. Old age
2. Betrayal
3. The sea
Three of your everyday essentials:
1. Marlboros
2. Moisturizer
3. Writing
Three of your favorite musical artists:
1. Sergio Mendez
2. Sting
3. Lauryn Hill
Three of your favorite songs:
1. No Me Ames by Marc Anthony featuring Jennifer Lopez
2. On & On by Erykah Badu
3. Fuego de Noche by Ricky Martin
Three things you want in a relationship:
1. Respect
2. Space
3. Conversation [typical female]
Three lies and truths in no particular order:
LIES:
1. Saudi women are oppressed.
2. Love lasts.
3. Michael Jackson is innocent [on all 10 counts!].
TRUTH:
1. Mranao is my native language.
2. Men and women complement each other.
3. Michael Jackson is the king of pop.
Three physical things about the opposite sex that appeals to you:
1. Hands
2. Eyes
3. Smile
Three of your favorite hobbies:
1. Writing
2. Movies
3. Karaoke
Three things you want to do really badly now:
1. Pee
2. Shop for clothes
3. Eat dinner
Three careers you're considering/you've considered:
1. Music
2. Film
3. Advertising
Three places you want to go on vacation:
1. Cuba
2. Venice
3. France
Three kid's names you like:
1. Asher
2. Kimora
3. Yasmine
Three things you want to do before you die:
1. Bungee
2. Skinny-dip
3. Fall
Three ways that you are stereotypically a boy:
1. I don't care much about anything.
2. I eat a lot.
3. I hate boyband Westlife.
Three ways that you are stereotypically a girl:
1. I talk a lot.
2. I buy glossies every month [not Cosmopolitan anymore, though].
3. I moisturize.
Three celeb crushes:
1. Viggo Mortensen
2. Johnny Depp
3. Ewan McGregor
***My turn to tag... People that I would like to see take this quiz:
1. Bitch
2. Petra
Monday, June 27, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
The [Cigarette] Butt Of It
Sure, this refers to the opposite of the J.Lo Butt, to mean having an ass the size of a cigarette, but what I am referring to at the moment is the Marlboro variety. After extensive research and continual discourse with people from the smoking genre [at the proverbial round table, of course], I have come to several conclusions. These will be discussed at length subsequently. If you are a smoker, you might agree to some or all of my assumptions. On the other hand, if you are NOT a smoker, I'm sure you'll have a smirk on your face the size of Mars, OR you'll leave a comment that says otherwise. In any case, I have a Desclaimer Portion that should cover my own cigarette butt [the rear end variety] quite nicely. I think.
Adolescent Burning
When we finally become a teenager and move on up to high school, we get these notions of being free and independent. It's probably from watching too much American TV, where kids move into the garage, have boyfriends and girlfriends by the age of 13, sneak in some beer into an otherwise innocent 14th birthday party, lose virginities "technically" by 15, and drive their own cars by 16. These notions are manifested on to the one single thing that we can do, not being Americans [actors or otherwise] and all that, which is smoking. As with everything associated with being a teenager, the whole process of smoking on the sly is very clumsy, and done with a nervous, clammy hand. Frantic whispers of "hide it, hide it, HIDE IT!!!", crumpled soft-packs passed on from one guilty friend to another, jittery hands trying to light the stick, dry coughing, spitting [tastes yucky, dunnit?], laughing nervously in excitement, and finally, beaming, triumphant. Rebels without a cause. It's one way of saying, "Man, this is my life and I'll do anything I well please with it." Also, this habit makes the adolescent feel like he's up there with the big boys; you know, griping about life, smoking, stuff.
Idealistic Huffing and Puffing
So now you're all past that. You're in your early twenties, post-adolescent idealism on turbo, especially in a university. Your cigarette now symbolizes your contemplation, your thoughts, and your radically idealistic views. You migh've been smoking since high school, or you might've just started hanging out with a bunch of ardent activists, anarchists, or artists, whichever group you feel is the coolest, all of whom are smokers. Not to mention that by this time, you will have discovered that you can smoke a variety of other things. Since you can now smoke in public without you parents climbing up your ass about it, your cigarette acquires more functions. It becomes your social companion. Per esempio, you're at a club, just shaking what ya momma gave ya, and then you get tired and want to catch your breath for a moment. You'll most probably look dorky just standing there while your friends are all out on the dancefloor going crazy. No one's talking to you [yet], so what do you do? Whip out the magic stick! You'll look like you have a purpose in life [to smoke yourself senseless], your hands are busy, AND someone will most probably ask you for a light, never mind if it's some weirdo, butt-ugly mthfcka.Academic-wise, let's say you're at a study group. You have your group mates, who are normal people, and then you have that nerd who does all the talking and all the work [who happens to be the self-appointed leader, as well]. You will take a break sometime after Nerdy runs out of stupid ideas, so you take out your cigarettes and smoke instead of discussing Nerdy's weekend plans. Smoking then also fills up those blanks while you're writing a paper, those lulls while you're discussing literature, symbolism, Marxism, and the breaking down of society through Pilates with your friends; that stillness when you're drunker than who-shot-John after a night of binge-drinking; and the silence on your end of the phone when you call up your old folks for money and your momma's just banshee-ing at you.
Delayed Teenage Rebellion
Anyone smoking after the college phase falls on this one. This overdue teenage rebellion is depicted mostly by frustrated housewives who find themselves stuck on a dead-end, especially concerning marital issues, unfulfilled aspirations, and a generally it's-all-too-late attitude. Although women who smoke in public aren't that big a deal anymore nowadays, some societies still look down on women who do, except if she is a housewife. It's probably her only respite from the daily turmoil of raising a usually ungrateful family, so spare her a little. Don't be surprised to see a woman with an apron and hair-rollers chainsmoking in her balcony at midday. As for men, smoking into their mid-thirties is just a case of a habit he can't break, like perpetually checking out younger women.
Why We Should NOT Be Smoking
Oh, you know why.
Disclaimers
The brand of cigarettes one consumes will depend entirely on the country where one is residing at the moment of consumption. [No duh]. Marlboro TM was referenced here just in case by some yet-unknown miracle, some higher-up from said company comes across this blog and decides to sponsor me in my ventures. Who knows, I might get to visit that legendary Marlboro Country.
I never smoked in high school.
I am not promoting smoking as a pastime. I am merely stating unknown, well-known, and made-up facts.
I am not a non-smoker.
Pass me one, cowboy.
Adolescent Burning
When we finally become a teenager and move on up to high school, we get these notions of being free and independent. It's probably from watching too much American TV, where kids move into the garage, have boyfriends and girlfriends by the age of 13, sneak in some beer into an otherwise innocent 14th birthday party, lose virginities "technically" by 15, and drive their own cars by 16. These notions are manifested on to the one single thing that we can do, not being Americans [actors or otherwise] and all that, which is smoking. As with everything associated with being a teenager, the whole process of smoking on the sly is very clumsy, and done with a nervous, clammy hand. Frantic whispers of "hide it, hide it, HIDE IT!!!", crumpled soft-packs passed on from one guilty friend to another, jittery hands trying to light the stick, dry coughing, spitting [tastes yucky, dunnit?], laughing nervously in excitement, and finally, beaming, triumphant. Rebels without a cause. It's one way of saying, "Man, this is my life and I'll do anything I well please with it." Also, this habit makes the adolescent feel like he's up there with the big boys; you know, griping about life, smoking, stuff.
Idealistic Huffing and Puffing
So now you're all past that. You're in your early twenties, post-adolescent idealism on turbo, especially in a university. Your cigarette now symbolizes your contemplation, your thoughts, and your radically idealistic views. You migh've been smoking since high school, or you might've just started hanging out with a bunch of ardent activists, anarchists, or artists, whichever group you feel is the coolest, all of whom are smokers. Not to mention that by this time, you will have discovered that you can smoke a variety of other things. Since you can now smoke in public without you parents climbing up your ass about it, your cigarette acquires more functions. It becomes your social companion. Per esempio, you're at a club, just shaking what ya momma gave ya, and then you get tired and want to catch your breath for a moment. You'll most probably look dorky just standing there while your friends are all out on the dancefloor going crazy. No one's talking to you [yet], so what do you do? Whip out the magic stick! You'll look like you have a purpose in life [to smoke yourself senseless], your hands are busy, AND someone will most probably ask you for a light, never mind if it's some weirdo, butt-ugly mthfcka.Academic-wise, let's say you're at a study group. You have your group mates, who are normal people, and then you have that nerd who does all the talking and all the work [who happens to be the self-appointed leader, as well]. You will take a break sometime after Nerdy runs out of stupid ideas, so you take out your cigarettes and smoke instead of discussing Nerdy's weekend plans. Smoking then also fills up those blanks while you're writing a paper, those lulls while you're discussing literature, symbolism, Marxism, and the breaking down of society through Pilates with your friends; that stillness when you're drunker than who-shot-John after a night of binge-drinking; and the silence on your end of the phone when you call up your old folks for money and your momma's just banshee-ing at you.
Delayed Teenage Rebellion
Anyone smoking after the college phase falls on this one. This overdue teenage rebellion is depicted mostly by frustrated housewives who find themselves stuck on a dead-end, especially concerning marital issues, unfulfilled aspirations, and a generally it's-all-too-late attitude. Although women who smoke in public aren't that big a deal anymore nowadays, some societies still look down on women who do, except if she is a housewife. It's probably her only respite from the daily turmoil of raising a usually ungrateful family, so spare her a little. Don't be surprised to see a woman with an apron and hair-rollers chainsmoking in her balcony at midday. As for men, smoking into their mid-thirties is just a case of a habit he can't break, like perpetually checking out younger women.
Why We Should NOT Be Smoking
Oh, you know why.
Disclaimers
The brand of cigarettes one consumes will depend entirely on the country where one is residing at the moment of consumption. [No duh]. Marlboro TM was referenced here just in case by some yet-unknown miracle, some higher-up from said company comes across this blog and decides to sponsor me in my ventures. Who knows, I might get to visit that legendary Marlboro Country.
I never smoked in high school.
I am not promoting smoking as a pastime. I am merely stating unknown, well-known, and made-up facts.
I am not a non-smoker.
Pass me one, cowboy.
Monday, June 13, 2005
In Naught We Trust
My mother once told me when I was very young to not give all of myself away, not even to my bestest best friend. "Leave some of you to yourself," she said. Mystery was what she called it. Leave a little 'mystery', because baring yourself completely to someone else will one day be your downfall once that someone tells someone else, whether or not as an act of cruelty. I was maybe in the 4th or 5th grade when she told me this, and my best friend back then was Sarah, a Pakistani whose father was my father's banker. We shared erstwhile life-and-death secrets, the kind that only ten-year-olds find life-threatening, like secretly hating the most popular girl in class. I could not imagine Sarah ever betraying me by making public these 'mysteries', so I ignored my mother's warning, dismissing it as one of those generation gaps we had, like when she'd start with the 'when I was your age, I made my own clothes' speech. Dude. Mom.
But I think I'm beginning to understand her now. No, Sarah never did betray me, although if she did, it's all good, because I became the popular girl everyone hated the very next year [sure]. But I'm sure she never did. But some people will deliberately find situations where anything you said CAN and WILL be used against you. Even among best friends, it can happen. A minor spat should do the trick, easy. To protect yourself, you shouldn't give away too much. Leave some of you to yourself.
I've just been watching films that made me realize that as well. In the Spanish [or was it Mexican?] film Y Tu Mama Tambien, Julio did not know that Tenoch, his childhood best friend who had rich parents, would use his foot to open the toilet lid and to flush afterwards beacuse he daren't touch anything with his hand. On the other hand, Tenoch didn't know that Julio always lit a match inside the bathroom after pooping to mask the smell [great idea, though]. These are mysteries they chose to keep, probably because they believed it may be used against them someday.
In the Mandy Moore starrer Chasing Liberty, and the similarly-plotted First Daughter starring Katie Holmes, the girls fell in love with men who turned out to be their secret bodyguards [who were in plainclothes, of course, not the Men In Black thingamajig]. And who can forget that incredibly distressing film "Unfaithful", where the perfect wife suddenly gets into an extra-marital affair? Betrayal is always portrayed in films, being the center of all life's dramas. Filmmakers have a penchant for breaches of trust, infidelity, treachery, and what-have-yous. And most of the time, the ones who betray you are the ones you least expect to. [Of course, or else it wouldn't be as painful... Hmmm... No duh.] So in this day and age, who can we trust?
Nobody.
Case in point, I was just reading an article about bigtime music producer Rodney Jerkins. All I could think about was 'how could anyone trust a man whose name's letters spell jerk, nerd, and dork?' Look at the artists he churned out: Mariah "I'm-Having-A-Breakdown-Because-I'm-A-Horrible-Actress" Carey, Jennifer "Obviously-Still-Puffy's-Bitch" Lopez, Britney "Please-Watch-My-Loser--Reality-TV-Show" Spears, with all due respect to these divas who, at one point in my life, I trusted with all my life. Of course, Jerkins' name couldn't have been the direct cause of these women's theatrics, but still. It's an issue. [With me, anyway. I'm sick like that.]
So like I's said.
Nobody.
Fact, not even ourselves. I mean, I wouldn't trust myself, no sir. I'm a chronic liar.
So sure, it justifies the cause of commitment-phobes, but hey. It's always good to be cautious. They say sometimes we have to just let go and break the glass, so to speak. But most of the time, I say keep it reined in. Keep your secrets in a safe, bullet-proof place. Knamean?
"Sadness is everyone's secret." --John Dufresne
But I think I'm beginning to understand her now. No, Sarah never did betray me, although if she did, it's all good, because I became the popular girl everyone hated the very next year [sure]. But I'm sure she never did. But some people will deliberately find situations where anything you said CAN and WILL be used against you. Even among best friends, it can happen. A minor spat should do the trick, easy. To protect yourself, you shouldn't give away too much. Leave some of you to yourself.
I've just been watching films that made me realize that as well. In the Spanish [or was it Mexican?] film Y Tu Mama Tambien, Julio did not know that Tenoch, his childhood best friend who had rich parents, would use his foot to open the toilet lid and to flush afterwards beacuse he daren't touch anything with his hand. On the other hand, Tenoch didn't know that Julio always lit a match inside the bathroom after pooping to mask the smell [great idea, though]. These are mysteries they chose to keep, probably because they believed it may be used against them someday.
In the Mandy Moore starrer Chasing Liberty, and the similarly-plotted First Daughter starring Katie Holmes, the girls fell in love with men who turned out to be their secret bodyguards [who were in plainclothes, of course, not the Men In Black thingamajig]. And who can forget that incredibly distressing film "Unfaithful", where the perfect wife suddenly gets into an extra-marital affair? Betrayal is always portrayed in films, being the center of all life's dramas. Filmmakers have a penchant for breaches of trust, infidelity, treachery, and what-have-yous. And most of the time, the ones who betray you are the ones you least expect to. [Of course, or else it wouldn't be as painful... Hmmm... No duh.] So in this day and age, who can we trust?
Nobody.
Case in point, I was just reading an article about bigtime music producer Rodney Jerkins. All I could think about was 'how could anyone trust a man whose name's letters spell jerk, nerd, and dork?' Look at the artists he churned out: Mariah "I'm-Having-A-Breakdown-Because-I'm-A-Horrible-Actress" Carey, Jennifer "Obviously-Still-Puffy's-Bitch" Lopez, Britney "Please-Watch-My-Loser--Reality-TV-Show" Spears, with all due respect to these divas who, at one point in my life, I trusted with all my life. Of course, Jerkins' name couldn't have been the direct cause of these women's theatrics, but still. It's an issue. [With me, anyway. I'm sick like that.]
So like I's said.
Nobody.
Fact, not even ourselves. I mean, I wouldn't trust myself, no sir. I'm a chronic liar.
So sure, it justifies the cause of commitment-phobes, but hey. It's always good to be cautious. They say sometimes we have to just let go and break the glass, so to speak. But most of the time, I say keep it reined in. Keep your secrets in a safe, bullet-proof place. Knamean?
"Sadness is everyone's secret." --John Dufresne
Monday, June 6, 2005
On The Job
What I love most about FHM is that section on odd jobs. Ok, so I also read it because of the interesting [sure] articles, and also to find out to what extent the editors can stretch an average guy's sexual fantasies. Anyway. FHM Philippines once featured a guy who was responsible for those crossword puzzles in our dailies. He gets maybe less than half of what the FHM editor-in-chief himself earns in a week [and less than half the action as well, I presume]. Sure, Mr. Crossword Puzzle claims to love what he does, but Mr. FHM Chief loves the girls he does. Nowadays, it's not just about loving what you do [that's so 90s]; it's really more about the perks you get from a job you love to do. Of course, that's just next to impossible. I'd love to see the day.
Coming back to Jeddah and lounging around my parents' house like a fat cheshire cat, although quite satisfying, made me think about getting myself a job over here. First of all, because I need to earn myself some Benjamins [ermm... or Malik Fahads, I guess]; second, because it's really the inevitable next step since I've already made a fool of myself in high school, and studied [sure] and partied in college. Now, how's about a career path? I've tried getting jobs before - I've worked as a call center agent back in Manila [come on, who hasn't?], disc-jockeyed on the radio back in college, and taught English to Southeast Asian exchange students in our univ [who all ended up learning Filipino cuss words, geez.]
All those jobs I did for the sake of experience. It builds character, they said. Sure, I learned some stuff: Dj-ing for a radio station doesn't mean you're a star. There's a reason why only your voice is heard and your face not shown to the public. And it's not because you have a striking resemblance to Catherine Zeta-Jones [or even Michael Douglas at his worst]. And yes, Dr. Love sounds sexy, but he's not Mr. Aussie-Hot-Pants in real life, he's really a 48-year-old, fat Manong Dodo [or Faraj].
When teaching English to non-native speakers [a.k.a. people who know diddlysquat about English], let them experience the words, not just learn them. Very good example would be Vandim, Cambodian, 22 years old, Cambodian minister's son, and a very receptive young man. He wanted to know what the equivalent of "sak-e" [Japanese liquor] was in English. I was a college student then, so I raised my fist and cried "Beer!!" [Interesting fact: college students around the world are known for drinking too much beer while reading too much English literature]. So I marched him and his classmates down to the nearest bar and poured beer onto their hands [in classic Hellen Keller fashion, of course] and said to them in faint whispers, "Beer, my friends... Beer." I charged them 350 pesos per hour each, plus beer. They are now fairly good in English, and all the Bud-wiser. Also, I learned that real emotion transcends language, so what you can't get across with words, do so with frantic hand gestures. There will always be the language barrier, sure, but a middle-finger flash is a middle-finger flash in most southeast Asian cultures.
In a call center office, always stay away from the ugly people. They are NOT beautiful on the inside, don't listen to their moms. Strike up a superficial friendship with the gay circle. The exclusive club is penetrable, and a fag-hag is really like being a movie star, especially since [and only if] you're a woman. If you're not a "she", and you don't look anything like Johnny Depp or Keanu Reeves, stick to the ugly people. During coffee or puff breaks, avoid talking about yourself - it will be done when you leave. Always go to office parties; otherwise, they'll assume you're fat. If you want to get promoted, flirt. If you want enemies, flirt. If you want to be popular, flirt. If you want to be cheap, flirt. It's a lose-lose situation. Or win-win, however which way you look at it. Anyways, it's not worth it if you want to hit yourself on the head with an ace each time you wake up to a working day. The pay will NOT compensate for your misery, and having benefits such as medical insurance [which probably has a million loopholes anyway so that you will STILL need to pay your hospital bills in case of an emergency] is not called 'having perks'. So what if you can go to that high-end gym across your building once a month for free? You still hang with the ugly people.
So continues the never-ending quest for a better job. There's a few interesting jobs I've come across. I once had an officemate who's responsible for the captions on photos we see in lifestyle and home design magazines. She is asked to write up interesting descriptions of lace curtains and mahogany furniture. Her imagination stops at 'floral' and 'exquisite'. I mean, how many adjectives can you come up with to describe lace? Another good friend of mine works as a geologist [I can't believe I have a real-life friend who has such an important [sounding] job!]. I'm not sure of what it is he does, but he studies rocks and rock formations on-field. And he gets paid handsomely. I know someone whose daughter was employed as a young princess' playmate. In return for her services, she's toured all over the world. [Imagine playing with a princess, geez. She'll always win, and she's still royalty. No fun.] My friend Rice works as a bartender in a reputable nightspot, and once a week, she juggles her drink-bottles for the customers [ermm.. I didn't mean that metaphorically]. Fact, she was last year's state champion for bottle-juggling!
When we were younger, it's simple enough. I used to think about the people who wrote dictionaries. What a cool job they have, eh? And how about those cartographers? How hard is it to make a map? I dreamed of being a bus driver or a taxi driver when I was little. I used to think to myself, that'd be so cool, going places, meeting people AND getting paid to do so! Perks and Pay. But then we get older. Enter the social status and prerequisite college degree [even to be a cafe barista, one has to have college papers] and the desire for prestige and money and an impossibly unanimous nod of approval from a discriminating society. It's become complicated. Oi Vei.
But one thing I know's for sure:
Damn, the Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques has the best job. Perks included.
Coming back to Jeddah and lounging around my parents' house like a fat cheshire cat, although quite satisfying, made me think about getting myself a job over here. First of all, because I need to earn myself some Benjamins [ermm... or Malik Fahads, I guess]; second, because it's really the inevitable next step since I've already made a fool of myself in high school, and studied [sure] and partied in college. Now, how's about a career path? I've tried getting jobs before - I've worked as a call center agent back in Manila [come on, who hasn't?], disc-jockeyed on the radio back in college, and taught English to Southeast Asian exchange students in our univ [who all ended up learning Filipino cuss words, geez.]
All those jobs I did for the sake of experience. It builds character, they said. Sure, I learned some stuff: Dj-ing for a radio station doesn't mean you're a star. There's a reason why only your voice is heard and your face not shown to the public. And it's not because you have a striking resemblance to Catherine Zeta-Jones [or even Michael Douglas at his worst]. And yes, Dr. Love sounds sexy, but he's not Mr. Aussie-Hot-Pants in real life, he's really a 48-year-old, fat Manong Dodo [or Faraj].
When teaching English to non-native speakers [a.k.a. people who know diddlysquat about English], let them experience the words, not just learn them. Very good example would be Vandim, Cambodian, 22 years old, Cambodian minister's son, and a very receptive young man. He wanted to know what the equivalent of "sak-e" [Japanese liquor] was in English. I was a college student then, so I raised my fist and cried "Beer!!" [Interesting fact: college students around the world are known for drinking too much beer while reading too much English literature]. So I marched him and his classmates down to the nearest bar and poured beer onto their hands [in classic Hellen Keller fashion, of course] and said to them in faint whispers, "Beer, my friends... Beer." I charged them 350 pesos per hour each, plus beer. They are now fairly good in English, and all the Bud-wiser. Also, I learned that real emotion transcends language, so what you can't get across with words, do so with frantic hand gestures. There will always be the language barrier, sure, but a middle-finger flash is a middle-finger flash in most southeast Asian cultures.
In a call center office, always stay away from the ugly people. They are NOT beautiful on the inside, don't listen to their moms. Strike up a superficial friendship with the gay circle. The exclusive club is penetrable, and a fag-hag is really like being a movie star, especially since [and only if] you're a woman. If you're not a "she", and you don't look anything like Johnny Depp or Keanu Reeves, stick to the ugly people. During coffee or puff breaks, avoid talking about yourself - it will be done when you leave. Always go to office parties; otherwise, they'll assume you're fat. If you want to get promoted, flirt. If you want enemies, flirt. If you want to be popular, flirt. If you want to be cheap, flirt. It's a lose-lose situation. Or win-win, however which way you look at it. Anyways, it's not worth it if you want to hit yourself on the head with an ace each time you wake up to a working day. The pay will NOT compensate for your misery, and having benefits such as medical insurance [which probably has a million loopholes anyway so that you will STILL need to pay your hospital bills in case of an emergency] is not called 'having perks'. So what if you can go to that high-end gym across your building once a month for free? You still hang with the ugly people.
So continues the never-ending quest for a better job. There's a few interesting jobs I've come across. I once had an officemate who's responsible for the captions on photos we see in lifestyle and home design magazines. She is asked to write up interesting descriptions of lace curtains and mahogany furniture. Her imagination stops at 'floral' and 'exquisite'. I mean, how many adjectives can you come up with to describe lace? Another good friend of mine works as a geologist [I can't believe I have a real-life friend who has such an important [sounding] job!]. I'm not sure of what it is he does, but he studies rocks and rock formations on-field. And he gets paid handsomely. I know someone whose daughter was employed as a young princess' playmate. In return for her services, she's toured all over the world. [Imagine playing with a princess, geez. She'll always win, and she's still royalty. No fun.] My friend Rice works as a bartender in a reputable nightspot, and once a week, she juggles her drink-bottles for the customers [ermm.. I didn't mean that metaphorically]. Fact, she was last year's state champion for bottle-juggling!
When we were younger, it's simple enough. I used to think about the people who wrote dictionaries. What a cool job they have, eh? And how about those cartographers? How hard is it to make a map? I dreamed of being a bus driver or a taxi driver when I was little. I used to think to myself, that'd be so cool, going places, meeting people AND getting paid to do so! Perks and Pay. But then we get older. Enter the social status and prerequisite college degree [even to be a cafe barista, one has to have college papers] and the desire for prestige and money and an impossibly unanimous nod of approval from a discriminating society. It's become complicated. Oi Vei.
But one thing I know's for sure:
Damn, the Custodian of the Two Holy Mosques has the best job. Perks included.
Friday, June 3, 2005
Manila Girl
I have been putting off my writing for about a week now. Writing equals facing myself. I wasn't ready to face myself yet, and still am not, but there are these butterfly words all around me and I'm afraid if I don't write them down, they're just going to flutter away [Salma once said butterfly could've come from flutter-by, which sounds like a more suitable name for... butterflies, I guess.]
I've just been watching Filipino romantic movies [they're not romantic in the least, but we like to think that they are]. I wasn't going to, but I said, What The Hell. "Now That I Have You" stars John Lloyd Cruz and Bea Alonzo [my brothers will never forgive me for watching this AND writing about it] and it had its funny moments, but what I really watched it for was the Metro Manila setting. I miss the big, bad city. Sniff.
Things I miss about Le Manille:
* the freedom to go anywhere as a woman, wearing anything I'm in the mood for - pyjamas, baby shirts, even abayas [but only if I want to], my uncle's old sneakers, whatever.
* speaking Filipino; giving instructions directions, orders [I'm very bossy] in Tagalog with no fuss or big deal.
* at the beach of swimming pool, frolicking with male friends and relatives with no malice. Or little, anyway.
* women driving
* cars with tinted windows and windshields
* fitting rooms at clothing stores
* clothing stores with the latest collections
* commuting, riding the metro, taking a cab. Alone.
* going out to the little sari-sari store beside our house when I'm feeling all closed in inside
* smoking anywhere. As a woman.
* accessible cafes, restaurants, etc.
* finding anything and everything at the National Bookstore
* the heavily made-up salesladies at the Shoe Mart Department Stores
* readily accessible pirated/bootlegged DVDS [Yeah!!]
* FM radio stations and the pissant DJs
* commercial jingles on national TV
* SONGHITS!! [weekly magazines for music hits' guitar chords]
* cheap ukay-ukay [flea market] bookshops in Cubao
* city hotspots with the beautiful people and pulsating hiphop beats
* fashionable and witty gay people
* gayspeak and my gay posse [fag-hag!]
* sports complexes and gyms with Capoera and Tae-Bo. Sniff. I'm fat.
* San Miguel City, baby, yeah!
* Starting the week on Mondays
* spotting local celebrities at parties
* going to international artists' concerts
* book or album launches at Tower Records
* BILLIARDS, man.
* the sound of tricycles and motorcycles 24-7
* cat-fights [hehe]
* generally being a loser in a shit-hole apartment
That's just naming a few. Still, I'm saying I just miss them stuff. I don't necessarily want to go back anytime. Not just yet.
I've just been watching Filipino romantic movies [they're not romantic in the least, but we like to think that they are]. I wasn't going to, but I said, What The Hell. "Now That I Have You" stars John Lloyd Cruz and Bea Alonzo [my brothers will never forgive me for watching this AND writing about it] and it had its funny moments, but what I really watched it for was the Metro Manila setting. I miss the big, bad city. Sniff.
Things I miss about Le Manille:
* the freedom to go anywhere as a woman, wearing anything I'm in the mood for - pyjamas, baby shirts, even abayas [but only if I want to], my uncle's old sneakers, whatever.
* speaking Filipino; giving instructions directions, orders [I'm very bossy] in Tagalog with no fuss or big deal.
* at the beach of swimming pool, frolicking with male friends and relatives with no malice. Or little, anyway.
* women driving
* cars with tinted windows and windshields
* fitting rooms at clothing stores
* clothing stores with the latest collections
* commuting, riding the metro, taking a cab. Alone.
* going out to the little sari-sari store beside our house when I'm feeling all closed in inside
* smoking anywhere. As a woman.
* accessible cafes, restaurants, etc.
* finding anything and everything at the National Bookstore
* the heavily made-up salesladies at the Shoe Mart Department Stores
* readily accessible pirated/bootlegged DVDS [Yeah!!]
* FM radio stations and the pissant DJs
* commercial jingles on national TV
* SONGHITS!! [weekly magazines for music hits' guitar chords]
* cheap ukay-ukay [flea market] bookshops in Cubao
* city hotspots with the beautiful people and pulsating hiphop beats
* fashionable and witty gay people
* gayspeak and my gay posse [fag-hag!]
* sports complexes and gyms with Capoera and Tae-Bo. Sniff. I'm fat.
* San Miguel City, baby, yeah!
* Starting the week on Mondays
* spotting local celebrities at parties
* going to international artists' concerts
* book or album launches at Tower Records
* BILLIARDS, man.
* the sound of tricycles and motorcycles 24-7
* cat-fights [hehe]
* generally being a loser in a shit-hole apartment
That's just naming a few. Still, I'm saying I just miss them stuff. I don't necessarily want to go back anytime. Not just yet.
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