LISTEN

As soon as we hit our 20s, we get sucked into that void between adulthood and... adulthood. This is the time when we think we've transcended adolescence. But in reality, we haven't. We've just gotten more eloquent and impassioned in phrasing our complaints.

What was once "I hate my life" has now become "I'm having an existential dilemma."

It used to be "I hate my parents", now it's "They're manipulating my life so they can live out their faded dreams through mine."

Yep, same difference.

This is also the time when we ponder and write articulate blogs about how unsure we are with the paths our lives are taking. We never know what to do, never know what we want, never satisfied. We are always chasing dreams. As a result, the complaints consume us and we can't even start to think about living these dreams.

I'm proud of some people I know who pushed themselves into doing what they want to do. They stopped the complaining (or at least kept it at a minimum), and slaved on until they got to the starting point. Yes, JUST the starting point. It's a long way, but at least they're somewhere.

So everytime I hear Beyonce singing in that movie Dream Girls, I can't help but feel some of her triumph. This song is for my sister Jehan, for achieving her goals, for getting her degree finally, and for taking control of her life; and for Shari, who also finally took a step forward, inching closer and closer towards success.

Now, close your eyes, and imagine me screaming at the top of my lungs, Beyonce-style, singing this song.

Listen
To the song here in my heart
A melody I start
but can't complete

Listen
To the sound from deep within
It's only beginning to find release

The time has come
For my dreams to be heard
They will not be pushed aside and turned
Into your own,
all 'cause you won't listen

Listen
I am alone at a crossroads
I'm not at home in my own home
And I've tried and tried
To say what's on my mind
You should have known...

Now I'm done believing you
You don't know what I'm feeling
I'm more than what you made of me
I've followed the voice you gave to me
But now I've got to find my own...

You should have listened...

Listen
To the song here in my heart
A melody I start
but I will complete...

Gift-ed

Gifts are perpetually embarrassing, giving or receiving them. When someone's birthday comes along, you always think, "Will she like this?". Then you end up spending tons of money on something you're only half-sure she likes, only to slap yourself on the forehead later, thinking what other cooler things you could've gotten for her. Or him.

THEN you hand over the present, and the fervent thanks-giving ensues. "Oh, you shouldn't have!" and you're obligated to respond, "Oh, you deserve much, much more!" *red face*

I always die a little when people give me presents. It's always surprising, always flattering, and I never know how to respond. I usually smile from ear-to-ear, crack some lame joke, and then quickly make a list of things I can give the person back. "She got me a book, love it, love it, LOVE it; now I'll have to get her a gold watch." Yes, I was always bad at calculation.

So when one of my students, a real-life princess, gave me an expensive mobile phone as a thank-you gift, I did the only two things I knew to do:

a) Got so red-faced you could hardly see me in that big red abyss that was my face.
b) Showed it off to every single living person I knew.

For the sake of discussion, because we all know it is just next to impossible, what kind of gift can I give her back? What does one give a person who cannot possibly want or need something I can ever afford?

No, abstract ideas like freedom and loyalty and kindness do not count.

Anyway, I really appreciated the gesture; she was the best kind of princess I ever met, and even though I was utterly embarrassed by the present, the showing-off-afterwards was all worth it.

What was the best gift YOU have ever given or received?

The Secret Lives of Children and Friends

My mother told me that she had rung Rosie yesterday.

"How did she sound?" I said.

My mother's face broke into a big smile and she said, "Oh, she's fantastic. She's doing incredibly well. She's almost finished her dissertation and she's going out with a lovely boy called Simon. She needed £200 to buy a new printer for her computer so that she can print her dissertation out."

How little our parents know about us. Do my children lie to me?

- Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, Sue Townsend


The secret lives of children. My parents, for instance, don't know the demons I wrestle with, the intensity of my tooth problems, the extent of my smoking habit, my relationships with my friends and family. For sure, it's better that they know nothing of it. The question is, do they REALLY want to know? Do they, somehow, somewhere deep within their subconscious, not want to know? Do they want us to forever stay little children? I don't want their noses in my business, at the same time I want them to know how I turned out.

The secret lives of friends. How much do we know of our dear, dear friends? Outside of projected habits, of expressions and recycled jokes, outside of the hanging-out-in-cafes, how much do we really know?

The secret lives of parents. What did they have to give up? All we know of our parents start from the day we were born. Anything before that is just a story they tell us. How much of it is true? How much is held back? Do we want to know?

*****

I've been trying for the past hour to divert the attention from my toothache elsewhere. Nothing's working. Everything triggers a throb of pain: the light from the lamp, the ticking of the alarm clock, the tapping of the keyboard, the hum of the air conditioner downstairs, the blinking stand-by light of the sub-woofer, the computer screen, the creaking of the bed, the colors of my room, the darkness behind my closed eyes. The pain is driving me to madness. I imagine if I had a gun right now, I wouldn't even think twice about using it: aim it at my temple and pull the trigger. Blow my fucking brains out.

My teeth problems started when I took up smoking. I remember a time when people complimented my teeth, when I was encouraged to audition for toothpaste commercials and advertisements. All this before I was a smoker.

I remember my brothers' friend Sujie, how miserable he would be when I squirmed with my toothaches. He would run out to the Mercury Drug Store on Tandang Sora Avenue, the closest one that's open, at 3 or 4 a.m. and get me some painkillers. I don't remember which brand I popped back then. Ponstan, maybe. He would offer me a lit cigarette for instant and momentary relief. The gestures touched me. He was like an older brother to me.

*****

I look at windows in apartments, and as I watch people's curtains sway with the soft breeze, I wonder mightily about their lives, about their furniture, about their troubles and their luxuries. I wonder if they have it going better than I do, or if they have it worse. I wonder. I remember Khadija, and how we shared this little pastime. It's strongest when I'm in a moving vehicle, and I'm looking out the window.

*****

Jet Lag is the kind of movie that I don't want to end, and yet, drives me crazy from wanting to know what the ending will be. It's not very original; I know I've seen better foreign films, better romantic comedies. But Juliette Binoche, and Jean Reno, and that old French charm makes a world of difference. I notice little things, like Rose's man Sergio's lines, how they were written so that he sounds more cruel than he probably is, to turn the audience off. Or how the whole plot revolved around two people, how unrealistic it was that the people around them didn't seem so important, but that they were constantly on the phone with them. Or those little signs of Change: the decision to forgo make-up 'just this one time', or the description of the dream house. Little things. I like to think that I've evolved from a movie buff to a proper film critic.

*****

The story of Freckles, have I mentioned it? I lost her last month. My cousins were over for a night of movies and karaoke, and the boys were sent out to buy food. Of course, them being valedictorians, one of them “forgot” to close our front door, a door that never shuts. Next thing we know, My Cat Formerly Known As Freckles And Now Just Miming was gone.

She is, in human years, about 21 years old. She is a university student now. She's out there somewhere, hanging out with alley-cats, discovering the outside world, getting drunk on dirty water, getting high on catnip, discussing cat-literature with her bohemian kitty-crew.

I am a bad cat owner.

Psychoanalyze Yourself

Fill in your answers and then scroll for the meaning behind it. Don't mess up the fun, do the answers first.

1. You are not alone. You are walking in the woods. Who are you walking with?
- My sister Jehanie.

2. You are walking in the woods. You see an animal. What kind of animal is it?
- A huge, mutated beast of the fantasy-novel kind.

3. What interaction takes place between you and the animal?
- A psy-war or a physical power struggle.

4.You walk deeper in the woods. You enter a clearing with your dream home that looks like...
- A small wooden house by a river.

5. Is your dream house surroundedby a fence?
- No.

6.You enter the house. You walk in to the dining room and see..
- A wooden table with writing tools and a book (possibly a thesaurus). Yawn.

7. You exit the house through the back door. Lying in the grass is a cup. What material is the cup made of?
- Glass. It's a champagne flute.

8.What do you do with the cup?
- I step around it and leave it there.

9. You walk to the edge of the property where you find yourself standing at the edge of a body of water. What type of body of water is it?
- A river.

10. How will you cross the water?
- I will wade through it.

*****
What the answers mean:

1. The person who you are walking in the woods with is the most important person/s in your life.

2. The size of the animal is representative of your perception of the size of your problems in your life.

3. The severity of the interaction you have with the animal is representative of how you deal with your problems.

4. The size of your dream home is representative of the size of your ambition to solve your problems.

5. NO fence is indicative of an open personality. People are welcome at all times. The presence of a fence indicates a closed personality. You'd prefer people not drop by unannounced.

6. If your answer did NOT include food, flowers, or people, then you are generally unhappy.

7. the durabililty of the material with the cup is made of is representative of the perceived durability of your relationship with the person you named in #1.

8. Your disposition of the cup is representative of your attitude toward person in #1.

9. The size of the body of water is representative of the size of your sexual desire.

10. How wet you get in crossing the water is indicative of the relative importance of your sex life.

*****
I'm tagging YOU. Send me your link so I can read your answers. =)

Riding In Cars With Boys

One of the many things I took for granted when I was outside Jeddah was, you guessed it, riding in cars with boys. I first realized this last year when my cousin PJ called me up at 2am to ask if it would be ok in Jeddah if he came to pick me up so we might cruise around the city, something we used to do in Manila.

IMHO, it's one of the most entertaining pastimes and rites of passage any girl worth her guy friends can go through. Boys play nice music, they drive fast and efficiently, they know how to park, their cars work properly, and you are safe in the knowledge that if and when the car breaks down, it's all taken care of. In addition to that, some of the funniest, nastiest, most disgustingly hilarious jokes and pranks take place inside a car with boys. Even on mild-joking days, there's always the oldest trick in the book, popularly known as Who Farted.

I remember spending time inside my guy friends' and cousins' cars. Sometimes, I ignore their crass jokes, sometimes I pitch in my two cents, sometimes I block them out when they become really dirty, and most of the time, I just roll down the window and let the bad air out.

In Jeddah, however, things are a little more complicated than just calling up a guy friend and getting in the car. I'm not encouraging youngsters to step out and meet random members of the opposite sex. I'm talking about people who have known each other forever, or people who are friends, cousins or otherwise related, or girls who just need rides home.

For these people, when it comes to transportation, there are other considerations to make. There's an age-old process that had been established by many young men and women before us, a sacred ritual that may not be overlooked. It could cost you your social life. The three major ones:

The Type of Car
Jeddah was never a place for single people. It has always been agreeable towards married couples, or families. Not boys with nice cars. Boys with nice cars are not married. Or they say they're not. Either way, they are Police magnets, especially if the abovementioned cars contain women. Therefore, guys who are planning on transporting women friends are encouraged to use the family station wagon, preferrably one with a sticker in the back that swears "Baby On Board".

The Relationship
Friends must establish their relationship way before they even THINK of getting in the car. This is crucial because, in the unfortunate event that you are apprehended, you could at least say you're cousins N-times removed. Don't forget to memorize each other's middle names, parents' names, addresses, and tribes of origin. It's a long shot, but a shot nonetheless.

Body Language
According to an unofficial study conducted by the National Riding In Cars With Boys Association, the number one reason for busts involving Friends In Cars is the little telltale signs of body language. Be comfortable. Think brother-sister. Try as much as you can not to dart your eyes from side to side. Don't be stiff. Don't be afraid to use hand gestures. Hit the driver for added effect. If you can hit him on the back of the head like his mom or sister would do, even better. Act as natural as possible.

There are many other precautions to take, but those, I shall leave to your sense of common. Bottom line is, unless you absolutely have to, don't ride in cars with boys. In a city like Jeddah, it might not be worth it, anyway.

However, if these two happen to be your friends, by all means, ride.



(Squeek and Sonic Boom, courtesy of Shari)

Some of my friends who are fun to ride in cars with: Aymen, Fayez, Ahmed, Waleed, Abdullah, and Majed, just to name a few.**


** Names may have been changed, and real names used, to protect the identities of these young men.

Girls' Best Friend?

Blood Diamond was impressive at best. The plot was so general and taboo that one is inclined to give credit to the filmmakers for tackling a topic so touchy. I bet it stepped on many important toes, and I'm just as sure that it didn't even begin to explore the whole messy and corrupt affair. That is the main problem of films that are ambitious enough to take on issues that are ruthlessly and tenaciously controlled by untouchable higher-ups. Other such films were early 2000's Traffic and 2005's Lord of War. It doesn't take one evil person to rule the world, and so it can only follow that it doesn't take one person to change it. It's a depressing thought, knowing that whatever good we strive to contribute to society, whatever help we can give, is almost useless. However, the writers attempted to lift our post-millennium cynical souls by inserting Danny Archer's noble and quixotic gesture towards the end. They finished with the idealistic, if cliché, "One man can make a difference" statement. Good for them. I, on the other hand, loather of sentimentality that I am, accuse the attempt of being unrealistic.

In many ways, the movie parodied itself. This is discernible in the female lead's Big Speech on her own stabs at making-the-world-a-better-place. So what if she is exploiting other people's grief by photographing them and writing dramatically subjective profiles on random sufferers, so what if all it does is move one person for five seconds, so what if it helps .0000001% of the needy? At least she's doing something. I'm glad she has that kind of hopeful defiance. It's more than I can say for MY pessimism.

The story itself is a little too smart, maybe a little too broad. Unless the audience has sufficient background knowledge on the history of war-torn Africa, movie-goers might be confused as to how exactly the diamond industry affects these people's lives. Are the diamonds the direct causes of death of the citizens? It's inevitable that the motives of the rebels-slash-villains would sway from worldly material possessions to political convictions. They are all interconnected. But then again, it takes away the focus of the movie. I wish they'd put more effort on informing the people on the many angles of the issue, but I guess that would compromise the entertainment factor. I can live with it. Djimon Honsou's chilling and powerful performance as an honest but distressed father distracted me from the many protests forming in my mind, and His Royal Hotness Leonardo di Caprio's grown-up stubble made up for all the missing links.

The portrayal of the female lead as an educated and passionate woman, yet not exempt from using women's wiles to get what she wants begs objection, but she did inspire me to go one step further and use whatever I have to be part of a cause bigger than myself. Who knows, I might bump into my very own former-teen-idol.

On the whole, it encourages compassion for those that are less fortunate than us; it promotes conscience and an awareness of the prevalent corruption all over the world. If, after seeing the movie, you change your mind about that rock you so desire to be married in, then it has served its purpose, and you have put in your two, rather valuable, cents.

Literary Snobbery

I can't believe how much I dislike Nicholas Sparks and that phony book "True Believer". It makes me sick. It's one of those books that, after you've finished reading, you feel like you've not only NOT GAINED anything, you've actually LOST valuable time. In short, it didn't tell me something I didn't already know.

In all fairness though, it made me think of the purpose my diaries might serve in the future. Would people read through it in search of something and actually FIND what they need? Am I doing justice to my generation?

*****
I liked CITIZEN GIRL. It's not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill chick-lit where some heavily caffeinated twenty-something woman stumbles through a much-hated job, the battle with the bulge, and an asshole-infested lovelife. Well, sure, it had those, too, but it's a little more intelligent than usual. We were presented with real conflicts here, real emotion, and some real smart language. For once, a chick-lit novel that makes you THINK.

The book is all about a girl making her way up the career ladder. On the brink of absolute success, she finds, to her utter dismay, that she is a candidate to become the higher-up of a pornographic company.

The heroine was conveniently placed in a dark place between the devil and the deep blue sea, and she had to decide if compromising her deep-set beliefs and convictions was worth it if it meant contributing to the greater good. Like killing one person to save a hundred.

Towards the end, I was hit squarely in the face with that sinking feeling that I am just one person in this world, and there's nothing I can do to make a difference in this evil, disgusting generation. But then, as she tossed away her (possibly) only shot at good employment and a handsome package, I could feel a little of her victory.

As for the love angle, Buster is your typical X-Generation twenty-some-odd-year-old: sometimes surprising but ultimately predictable and a little assholey (a requisite characteristic), articulate, updated, and pretty smart. Mr. New-Age Mushroom Guy.

The fictional names were a little mushy, though. The authors named the heroine Girl and the protagonist Guy. I think I flinched every time I read their names. And then there was that overused detail of the heroine calling one of, or both, her parents by their first names. So bohemians-last-season, if you know what I mean.

Johnny Ob-Knoxville

There are SOME valuable lessons to be learned from the Jackass videos. We have only to dig deep, to look beyond all the asshole-isms. This group of grown-ass men acting like total jerks, abusing themselves and those around them, is a fun and quite accurate example of the kind of men our MTV generation has produced. Forget dignified, educated leaders. Forget hard-working, compassionate, ambitious individuals. Those were our fathers. We are a generation of beer-bellied, vomit-eating, fart-smelling, physically destructive hee-haw machines. THIS is art for us. This is creativity: taking extreme sports to a whole new Jackass level.

Sure, they inspire me. Hey, just because they're disgusting doesn't mean they don't pull at my heartstrings. After watching the whole lot of them defy all sense of reason, I felt a surge of spunk, of bravery if you will, almost recklessness. How am I from this generation when I'm such a sissy? I can't even ride a bicycle, and I'm terrified of water.

They made me want to at least TRY to push my limits, to step out of my comfort zone. Those amusement park rides don't seem so scary now in comparison to their madcap stunts. I envy them their carefree dispositions.

Of course, most of their adventures were just so repulsive I could SMELL them through the TV screen.

And because I am (and will always be, no matter what I say) a member of our uptight, judgemental society, one question nags me:

"Where are their parents?"

Johnny Knoxville, Bam Margera, Party Boy, Ehren, Steve-O, Dave England, Ryan Dunn, Wee Man, Raab Himself (*salutes* what an original name!), all of them remind me of my cousins, my brothers, our friends, all the guys I hang out with. They are SOMEHOW charming because they are REAL.

"Hi, I'm Johnny Knoxville, and this is Jackass."

Birthday Greetings

I've missed too many birthday greetings. Not that it's THAT important to me. But birthdays are the perfect excuses to shower the people you care about with presents and attention. Unfortunately, they usually come around at a time when you are broke, or otherwise hanging by a very thin financial thread.

For the record, I acknowledge Kaka Nora, Kaka Khai, Kaka Amic, Alla, Al-Nemery, Emil, and Kaka Reham.

Albom's Law

Mitch Albom's The Five People You Meet In Heaven is a brilliantly tight-weaved piece of work. It does lean towards romanticism, but thankfully not to the Coelho extent. Having read it in less than 24 hours brought me back to my One Night Stand with By The River Piedra I Sat and Wept. Once again, thank God for the absent mysticism, forgive the pun.

So, romanticism. I don't just say that for snobbery's sake. I can understand the significance of the four people Eddie met in Heaven, except for that one. I mean, okay, the Blue Man saved his life (by getting killed), the Captain saved his life during the war, Ruby indirectly caused his death (seeing as how the whole amusement park business wouldn't've been made had it not been for her glorious self), and then there's the little Filipina (might I add) girl he "killed".

So where does the wifey come in? I think she only served as the mood-light to set the tone of the story. She was the focal point of love, that phenomenon without which the world would not 'go round'. Hey, I love romance. But I abhor sentimentality. Even more than that, I abhor sentimentality disguised as romance. It's like when the unreal parades itself as the surreal. Thin lines, people. Thin lines.

So what's a good book (or movie, or any work of art) without a one-liner, eh? The less it makes sense, the more profound it seems. The more contradictory, the more meaningful it becomes. Some highlights:

"All parents damage their children. Neglect. Violence. Silence."
I can write a book on this one. You know, do a La Toya Jackson.

"Parents rarely let go of their children, so children let go of them."
I can write a sequel to the one above with THIS one.

"We think that hating is a weapon that attacks the people who harmed us. But hatred is a curved blade. ...Forgive."
So much easier said than done. To forgive someone would take incredible strength. We see it as a sign of weakness, a symbol of giving up and submitting oneself to the enemy. Pride has a vise-like grip on people's subconscious. I have a long way to go before I can even think of forgiving certain people.

This novel can be likened to a single piece of embroidery picked out from a huge pattern; it's not the beginning of a story and it's definitely not the end. It continued from five people and it will continue on to five more people. Very not unlike Friendster and MySpace.

It might be a good idea to start taking notice of the people you meet on earth, to stop taking things and people for granted, and to stop complaining.

Life is good.

A Blast From The Past

Talk about the best of both worlds.

At the risk of crude sentimentality, I'd say I had an amazing time last night.

On the blue corner, my old friends.
On the red corner, my new friends.

All of them are now, officially, friends-in-law.

My old friends:
a) Sheriff Ahmed (of Who Shot The Sheriff fame), an old classmate
b) Muneer Taleb, also an old classmate
c) Ahmed Selim, an old classmate of my brother Zen
d) Dudut, a very good friend of my whole male posse

Muneer was quoting an old saying, "Mountains never meet, but people do." Mother of all surprises, I AM NOT A MOUNTAIN. I haven't seen Muneer and Sheriff in 9 years. We used to spend N hundred hours couped up in a Filipino-dominated classroom. Introducing them to my new friends was quite the experience. On the one hand, these are people who know everything about me; I do not have a single memory of my whole childhood and tweenhood that didn't have them in the background somewhere. There is no space or need for any kind of pretension with them. We shared high-school teachers, lame jokes, minor discrimination, and eggheadism. That's enough to sustain a relationship.

On the other hand, my new friends are just beginning to see other sides of me. Incredulity is not uncommon. Yes, I was a monster. Yes, I used to beat up boys and girls. Yes, I used to laugh at peoples faces. No, I wasn't always nice and all-brown-sugar-ish.

We all met at the Serafi Megamall. The little impromptu reunion started with the boys calling me to fetch them at the Danube supermarket. I was their only ticket to that glitzy glamour-world called Malling. As per contempo-Saudi tradition, young men are not allowed into the malls without the supervision of their female counterparts. After the prerequisite gasping and you've-gained-so-much-weight comments, the walk down memory lane commences. We talk about dorky days and even dorkier school-people, laughed at former red-faced moments, and tsk-tsked about how we turned out.

Yeah, it's funny how things turn out. And funny how things don't.

People do change. But how much of us has changed?

The Bacon

Sometimes, I feel the urge to explore further my growing obsession with KEVIN BACON, the biggest factor to this being the fact that my brothers practically forbade this occurence by laughing at his unusual nostrils and wimpy built.

They know nothing of his deep, blue eyes.

***
No one can fully comprehend my propensity for watching... watches, given my tendency towards wasting-time. I have a digital watch by my bed that gives me the exact time - down to the seconds, and I have a clock directly across my bed, positioned so that it's the first thing I see every morning when I wake up. It is also visible at every conceivable point in my room.

And yet, each time I awake, I go through the same motions: check the digital, then the wall-clock that's 5 minutes late, and finally, as if to make absolutely sure, I check the time on my mobile phone.

***
What's the world come to when a person goes for a smoke not because she wants to, but because she CAN?

I'll go for a smoke because I can. Never mind the pain in my throat, or that queasy feeling I have before a fever sets in. I CAN. Therefore I WILL.

***
A line in this rap song moves me.
"You silly girl, you better start talking."

Nothing profound. I know. But still.

***
People gasp in horror at the incredulity of our non-existent relationship, my mom and I. I will allow them to. It's the perk of ignorance: to be allowed certain reactions.

The Great White Overhaul

In honor of the new year, ladies and cats, welcome to this blog's Great White Ass-Haul.

Predictions:
1. Less pounds.
2. More responsibility.
3. No more Marlboros (and less Davidoffs).
4. Less pretentions.
5. Maturity.
6. Shoes.
7. No. More. Lies.
8. More Action, Less Talk.
9. But more words.
10. Possibilities.

Who Shot The Sheriff?

Whod've thought that I would see an old friend after what, 500 years? I don't know who he is anymore. It's disconcerting, the changes, time, the now-gone similarities, no common ground anymore. What did we have in common anyway? Half a nationality? Mr. Basman? A school building?

There's a certain level of out-of-bounds curiousity; of wanting to know what goes on in his head, how he turned out, how different or alike we are from each other considering our similar backgrounds and experiences. More like trying to understand my predicament, what brought me here, what pattern I followed.

The important question here is, is it fair to use him as a mirror? Maybe there are more differences than likenesses.

*****

Maybe I wasn't as mean to him as I remember, but knowing myself, I know I was to some degree, quite the bully.

The truth is, the Sheriff shot me.

To all the people I bullied, whose opinions and points-of-view were unimportant, non-existent to me; what gives me the right to contemplate their (newfound) intellects now? Their senses of humor? Their rugged features, their grown-up ways?

I do not have a right to claim them as my friends now. I have NOT EARNED IT.

I have no right talking to them, listening to them, introducing them to my other friends.

In so many ways, I needed the people I bullied. I did it for acceptance. I wanted to be funny at their expense. I'd lure them with the silhouette of friendship, kindness, generosity, so that they end up trusting me and thinking I'm their only friend. And then BAM. The Mighty Mighty Turnaround. The Poking-Fun. The Locking-In-Bathrooms. The Laughing-At-Faces.

I'm probably beyond karma. I am fortune's fool.

Because We Love Metaphors

Friends may be likened to songs.

Some are catchy, like pop songs; in the moment, fashionable, a sign of the times. You make friends with people around the same age as you.

Some are like hip-hop beats with a good hook. They make you want to get up and dance or nod your head. They are smooth and cool, almost savvy.

Some are old-fashioned; not necessarily classic, but more unimaginative and common.

Some are annoying and high-pitched, repetitive.

Some are seasonal, like Christmas carols, or novelty songs.

Some songs, like some of your friends, you like especially because they reflect your background, your roots, your origins, where you're from.

Some friends you just get sick of because, like a song that's over-played, they've become too familiar and you just want something new.

Some friends would remind you of a collaboration between two musicians of different genres, a duet. You might come from opposite points of a spectrum and yet be in harmony. Aerosmith and Run DMC. Jay-Z and Linkin Park. Sting and Craig David.

Some are just forgettable in their shrillness. They hurt your ears.

The friends I like most are those that inspire me to be a better person, musician, writer. They stretch my imagination and pull me up to their level. I strain to keep up, and in so doing, unknowingly go through a certain amount of growth. They are like those brilliant songs by ingenious musicians that I look up to. Sergio Mendez. Lauryn Hill. The Beatles. Pharell Williams. Marvin Gaye. The Red Hot Chili Peppers.

What song are you?

Twenty Oh Seven

New Year's Eve

Where I Spent It: Friday's, Andalus Street

What I Was Drinking: Pepsi

What I Was Wearing: My new abaya with the crimson spots on the sleeves that looked like cheese gone baaaaaad. Oh, and blood red nail polish courtesy of Linzi.

Who I Was With: The Ghamdis, the Noordin girls, Nadia, Linzi, Rami, Asmaa & Esraa, Yanni, Rami, and Squeek (briefly).

What I Was Thinking: How I wished it was a mixed crowd with more people; how it's my first New Year's party sans alcohol; how I could negotiate with my dad to pick me up much later than the 12:10 am that he did; and how my brothers were having a blast with my cousins sans me.

What I Was Reading: Cosmopolis by Don DeLillo

What I Last Watched: Just Like Heaven starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo, which I loved to pieces and watched twice in 24 hours.

What Song I Loved: Please Baby Don't by Sergio Mendez featuring John Legend

Last Magazine I Read: Newsweek and Time

Major Local News: Hajj updates and Saddam Hussein's execution

Ho-Hum

Tis the season to be married, fralalalala lalalala.
Congratulations to the brides and grooms of 2006. See y'all next year.

***

Filipinos are gaining popularity by the second.

***
Mr & Mrs Smith (the movie), in the scene right after Mrs Smith tried to unknowingly kill Mr Smith..

Brad Pitt: I didn't see who it was.
Vince Vaughn: Maybe he was Filipino.

***
The Break-Up, starring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston (the jilted Mrs Smith)..

Jennifer Aniston: Look at yourself! You're a mess!
Vince Vaughn: And you? What, you don't wanna talk about your family? About that Filipino exchange student?

***
Boston Legal, the courtroom drama TV series...

Lawyer Whatshisface: Extortion is so popular that even Filipino street-gangs are doing it!

***
Those aren't accurate quotes. But that's the gist. Oi.

HWY

It was one year ago today that my friend Nhurzy passed away. She was a victim of a drive-by shooting; both she and her father were shot as they were making their way to a pharmacy. I have not come to terms with her death; I still feel that she's there somewhere, making a fantastic ruckus, cracking taboo jokes, hoping for a better future. Her blogsite will be forever locked.

We're HERE WITHOUT YOU.

I'm NOT A QUITTER

Everyone tells me to quit smoking.

Maggie*: "Why do you hate yourself? Don't do this."

Ingrid*: "It's NOT gonna help you lose weight."

My boss: "Try the new Smoke-Less thingamajig."

My boss: "No smoking at work when kids are around."

My parents: "Stop smoking."

My friends: "Stop smoking."

Dully (7 years old): "DO YOU WANNA DIE?!"

My cigarettes: "Smoking is dangerous to your health."

***

The thing is, it is man's nature to SEE FOR HIMSELF.

I give people all kinds of advice. I don't mind when they don't listen. It's also man's nature to give advice.

***

I want to meet Al-rajul Al-3ankaboot. I have said his name approximately 63 times just the past week; averaging 9 times a day.

A Lot Like Love

As people, as human beings, we often feel the need to romanticize our states-of-affairs, to make ourselves feel the heroism that we most probably never possessed in the first place.

"I do everything I can for you, I put you before myself, I spend all my money, time, and energy on you, and this is the thanks I get?!"

*****

Why do we cry at movies? At weddings? Because we mourn for what we don't have, what we never had, and what we probably would never have. I don't believe those tears shed in happiness or joy for another person.

Tears are a lot like love - SELFISH.

*****

"Sadness is everyone's secret."