The Paostian Deal

Pete Rahon, a Pinoy currently staying in Korea, believes that "Filipinos are for real multi-lingual..." And I don't think anyone should contest, what with the Po-Opo (Hello po! Kumusta po? Ay, po, opo, ako po nga po 'yun po!), Me-U (Eat n b u? Eat me n rn e!) and the Ishuh a.k.a. Dumb Colegiala (Hello? Like, duh! Ano buh'ng shinabi kuh sha'yuh? 'Di buh shabi kuh you pick me up at 8? Sheven pa lang ah! You're sho shtupid ta-luh-gaaaa-uh!) Movements have taken leads among the Tongues spoken in the Philippines. (No, please don't try to get that last example. It may be strangely enjoyable, but it's fatal especially if you're non-innate.)

What we have, fortunately, is perhaps a new slang for "multi-lingual", courtesy of an online survey. It's smarter and less... rigid and scientific--hip, if the young-in-you likes:

Tagalong. We can't be certain, but perhaps there was no Filipino--or an actual linguist--among the surveyors to check for errors while they were drafting the thing. Or it's simply a misspelled word in an 8-year old survey. Or maybe there was an "expert", only that his knowledge stems from a traumatic experience in exhaustive Pilipino/Tagalog translations:

Désolé.
Patawarin mo ako.

Amigo!
Hoy pare, kumusta? Saan ang inuman? May chiks?

How dare you!
Ang kapal ng mukha mo'ng walanghiyang hayup kaaaaah!

Never forget the h.

One more good thing about the word is that it also connotes a most positive trait among one of the happiest people on Earth: the warm, forever welcoming camaraderie. Tag. Along. Filipinos are highly adaptable on one side and very much open on the other (which is a good thing, IF we're talking about taking in Change to improve lives). This leads to impeccably instant friendship no matter where either sprouted from. Sit with a Filipino for two hours then the only thing that would lack later is a blood compact--and you were only talking about peanut butter. Or Gretchen Barretto. Tag along. Very convenient too, if you think about it: Watch local shows and witness eternal remakes. Go to the local movies and you can occasionally feast on Filipinized Hollywood.

Tagalong. Reality is one smart ass.

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The lion with a small penis has to compensate with a mighty roar... unless the penis itself roars.

"How the F do you make it roar?"

What are you, 8?

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The lion with a small penis has to compensate with a mighty roar. Unless the lion prefers belting, in which case you might not be able to use his... mic, yet unless you're another lion who loves to belt.

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If your penis could talk, what would it say?

Colin Farrell: Are the tapes rolling? ... Retouch!

Bugs Bunny: I'm UP, doc!

Joseph Estrada: I feel limpy, but it's my style not to show it...

Ne-yo: I'm so stick!

Piolo Pascual: I'm not gay.

Sam Milby: So am I. Err--neither! Neither am I! Damn...

Daniel Day-Lewis: Señora bonita, pudo haber sangre... (Pretty lady, there might be blood...)

Joel Coen/Ethan Coen: No condoms for old men.

Sean Spears/Jayden Spears: Euww, rehab!

Porn Diva: Would you kill me if I become a gay lesbo?

Itchy Scratchy: Most probably.

Porn Diva: Oh, no. Help, Cuz! Here's the thing: There's this guy I met at (censored), then we went on a date. Turns out he's more femme than I. BUT: he also tells me he's never been so happy. Kinikilig siya when we txt and all. E I don't want to break the kid's heart. And he finds me cute and hot daw--ano ba 'yun!

Itchy Scratchy: Remind me to barf before going to bed. Kid?? Get a crash course in Aeronautics, zoom to Saturn and stay there.

Porn Diva: Naku naman. I don't want to sound rude. Remember that's your thing. Mine is sweeter. I'm supposed to be everybody's best friend duh vah? Besides, I also told him I'm a diva--hindi naman daw issue.

Itchy Scratchy: Okay. So, um... RUN! RUN FAST! Run fast AND NEVER LOOK BACK!!

Porn Diva: Great. Now I'm scared.

Itchy Scratchy: It's new territory. But I don't think my head will stop shaking anytime soon... Are you sure it's not your tummy? Or bangs?

Porn Diva: I know. I know. Right now, honestly, I just can't "leave" him because he's really happy loving me. He even tells his friends how happy he is. He txts almost every hour--which kinda starts to bug me. But my point is: "If I can't find my prince charming, let me at least be someone else's prince", that sort of sacrificing-for-the-greater-good stuff...

Itchy Scratchy: Okay bazooka past Saturn and head straight to Planet X. Are you listening to yourself? That's dumb charity. Worse, it's dumb charity and all you're giving away is a... wig. And if you want sacrifices, there's Sarah Geronimo. You'd be doing Everyone a favor if you take her out.

Porn Diva: Hmm... Bakit naman wig?

Itchy Scratchy: Think Cher becoming Prince. Or Whitney Houston morphing into Nora Aunor--same thing, but the "new" form is less, less, less shinier. You want to be Prince?

Porn Diva: He-he! Oo nga. I guess you're right. It's just that I don't want to break somebody's heart because I know how it feels...

Itchy Scratchy: You're a whore, not a social worker.

Porn Diva: I'll just find a way how to tell him. Sayang lang, cute pa naman. Hindi nga lang discreet.

Itchy Scratchy: Your gaytoy will learn. Soon as he discovers collared tops and maybe Mohawks and hair wax. Then maybe you can try again. For now, I'll be in Planet X and you stay away from ballads.

Porn Diva: Thanks, Cuz!

Another effective-slash-bit icky marketing.

Goo. Eruption. Vanilla...

Large. To. The last. ... slurp.

There's a good reason why Spiderwick's supposedly-satisfying filling is so light it sends you afloat because of nearly-boredom: To save you from a series of downer events that would have pounded and pounded on the skull and probably left you underground for the rest of eternity.

Like putting up with a brother that thinks 8:45 is 9:00. When he has no gas left and the gas station he loves is three blocks directly opposite the road to the cinemas. When he still has a girlfriend to fetch from inside a wormhole of a subdivision. When he tells you a cousin is joining the bunch but he is still some 40 minutes away and the opening credits are already running...

Like being held up by a scene where a crazed man points a gun at another pathetic loser on the last crossroad to the mall which was only less than a kilometer away. So much for keeping cool on a weekend--because your car is stuck right in front of the ruckus and you're petrified because you might miss all the movie trailers and a bullet could hit your forehead any moment. It's true, the mental block you experience when confronted with such instances. The nearest similar shit I remember was when another crazed man--covered in blood, presumably beaten by civilians for a crime--ran amok with a knife in his hand in an ER of a hospital where I was helplessly wasting an afternoon because a classmate was too stupid to hug a sparking live wire in a Science fair. That was high school, and I so much as forgot to run when I was right by the door and the bloody hound even strode to my left on his way out. I was thinking of how to fry the classmate should we survive the fuss at those moments, but last night my and our nosy, noisy anger management-challenged neighbors' lives were in a fast flashback in my peripheral vision while staring at that black gun (and that moronic police person who did nothing as he watched the scene on the sides himself).

Like circling a seemingly peninsula-ic mall because the brother drops you off on the wrong side of the continent and you have to run like a rabbit to reach the freaking ATM then the ticket booth before they both close. I swear, it was like Amazing Race meets Survivor meets 911. Not. Fun.

Like going to the wrong venue because your friend forgets to tell you they were in the new branch 35 subdivisions away and it's midnight and the car has already sped off because the girlfriend needs to be home by 1.

Like enduring a jock itch episode of a bunch of menopausal hags suffering extreme cases of Me Attitude, who mistakes your laughter as an insult when it was entirely not, which eventually became about them and their dire need to get laid by Meralco posts.

Spiderwick promises a colorful fantasy adventure (well, at least to the kids), but halfway to the flick you begin to believe that if this is the best expansion the screenwriters could come up with, then you can scrap the book series off your To Buys. (Then you cry: Aren't there any mermaids? Ghosts? Gnomes? Where are the dwarves? Baby dragons? The effing unicorns???) Good acting from the protagonist family, but I liked the smartass pacifist Simon-honest angry Jared (twin?) tandem best. Cuuute goblins. Icky and noisy on the side, but still extremely cute. See? Trying to be scary but firmly stays in La La Land. Spiderwick only almost had the same impact of the most imaginative diary of a teenage drama queen, thank goodness, otherwise--also remembering the unfriendly personnel of Alabang Festival Mall who should all quit now rather than pester everyone with their constant need to go home--I'd be in a coma right now. I want my three goblins.

But you gotta like it. You HAVE TO like it:

Belles and balls, Tina Turner doing Ashley Simpson.


Next up: Toni Braxton doing Jojo. Age is such a vicious force to trifle with. Glad to see some people still love to do it--and live to brag about it. Simply. Fabulous.

If you have to go, PLEASE pee on the john instead of your hands, especially when there's no butler waiting to open the door for you from the outside.

Whenever I catch a female TV celebrity announce "I eat like a man!", my eyebrow soars. Then I realize not all men are straight. I guess those bimbette's do live by the adage, pink of health.

It's been two months since I was promised a "Christmas gift". Either the Santa sent it to my polar twin in Rome or I should just become Jewish and get all these over with.

For cleaner and less disgusting toilet bowls, I'm begging, for beefcakes please use anti hair-fall shampoo.

When you expect the unexpected, why should it still be called unexpected? And when your expected unexpected came, should others still believe your... shock?

When a stranger grabs any of your body parts on the street, you yell and look for a police officer. When a lady suddenly grabs your arm while crossing the street, it's time to trim that tummy.

There is always an Annual Search For __________. WHY? If we're so pretentious that our "belief in" and "affection for the chosen ones" only last for about 360 days (300 if dethronement issues arise, 3 if sponsorship is measly), then let's stop wasting money and search for better things: like the Dumb-Colegiala Slayer of the Year (with body count as the only criterion), the Cockroach Annihilator of the Year and the Closet Queen of the Year.

The US government deletes Northern Rockies grey wolves from the endangered species list. So they can hunt them down again. When I act stupid, I try to do it more subtly.

If we "open our hearts and arms we encourage others to do the same", then why hasn't anyone attended any of my Movement Against Stupid Kolehiyalas conventions?

It's how amazing how such few words could almost mean Doomsday.

It's like you're sentenced with eternal halitosis--It's All Over. You try to run and look for answers in other places, e.g. net cafes, but all the time you dread going back and facing the painful reality. Not to mention accepting the truth that you, a non-geek moron, simply ran away fearing the oh-too-much dilemma. Even asking Why would also mean mustering the most unbreakable courage to hear the answer: Your connection package sucks, time to updrage, bimbos. It's humiliating and very much draining.

Shudder. Be careful whom you depend your life on.

"Pink is one of those glorious colors that boasts a broad range of tones and saturation, so there is truly something for everyone."

-- Krinsten Leigh Bell a.k.a. aromaleigh for Stylehive

As we all tend to neglect the basics of Survival In The Suburbs, it can be beneficial to occasionally eat your own words. I devoured mine last night and went to the movies... alone. Again... and surprisingly, it couldn't be nicer. In fact, I enjoyed it so much I even successfully contained my ballistic urges when the dumb colegiala I accidentally sat near to yelled "Euww! Gross!" on a gory "scene", a mobile phone on exponential volume from the middle aisle woke the whales in the South Pole and a crapbag to the far left kept theorizing on the ending like she was challenging a PUJ's honk. I saw two: Juno... and My Best Friend's Girlfriend.

The first one's a laugh. Literally. Ellen Page brings weirdo-hood to a whole new shining level--most probably better than running through walls and dancing with Iceman. She's so effectively funny you'd think she's the support role critics would love the most. But she is the fabulous lead in the unpretentious flick and we hafta hand it to her. And the combo of wit and music is even nicer, what with the rest of the characters with distinct personas also completing the notable movie experience. If sarcasm is optional, then Juno has a lot of options. Smart, honest, and charmingly real, the film can be a new Code for Casualness, the trait we best get back to before we fill Armageddon's glass past its brim. Life hurls "happening shit" at you and Juno tells you'd be better off handling it like a sane, thinking person than tire yourself (and others) with needless drama before actually doing something about the "happening shit".

Like taking off as soon as the bell rings because if not, you're gonna miss the darned 6:15 show even if you run like an ant dying to pee (Bad enough that you'd already missed the trailers, so there goes a third of your ticket). You pack up, wave good-bye and be contented they at least declined your invitation with an actual "No". After all, you opted to be UN-cool in the first place and you'd rather try enjoying a movie than throw cash at Stallions and it's only right you casually do your thing and live with the prospects of finding a seat in the dark by yourself Till Kingdom Come. (More Digression: As soon as Juno was "loading", right after the trailer of Inkheart, a Fil-Am tod walked in with his yaya. "I can't see anything! I can't see anything!" he begged. Either he was blindfolded, blind or both. He can't be stupid. He's 5. The yaya's the moron because she forgot her function as a labrador.)

Not to mention the adventure you'll have bulleting from your messy desk to the cinemas. I was a race car with the soul of an angry rhino. Wouldn't it be nice to just yell "Fire!" or "Piolo in bikini!" or "Piolo in bikini on fire!!" on a cramped escalator, because you feel like it, just to speed your way at 6:10 without earning glares? Or ask, "Who named you Holly Angel Paraiso? WHY are you named Holly Angel Paraiso?" and not flinch. Or how about the freeing, "Get over yourself, bitch, I'm not sleeping with your boyfriend!" because, well, you're really not (and he's only playing you as well) and Whore Paranoia just won't shut up? It pays to be real. Why don't we try it.

It could be that I was still reeling from the funtastic that's Juno, but I actually enjoyed My Best Friend's Girlfriend too. And we all know BFGF isn't about the sickeningly predictable plot or Valentine's or blockbuster ratings, heck it isn't even about Richard Gutierrez--at last, fuckette, and JC de Vera was hotter in the flick too--but about GMA 7's big retort to Angel Locsin: Marian Rivera. And how bad she makes girl Locsin regret ever going ober da bakod. In the movie either she's naturally funny or the writers made an amazing job matching Marian with her role, Grace. Never mind the usual dialogues stretched in lengths. Watch Marian and appreciate her effective attempts if only at being a comic--and that's more of her race with Angel, as the gal also tries her hand in "comedy" via ABS-CBN's Lobo. If the Curly Dumb Blonde rumors were true: There's nothing like a laugh trip to recover from an excruciatingly boring Monday and for that I'd like to congratulate a pal who has stuck phones to her eardrums for the rest of her life. Marian has won me over. Casually.

Grabbed those from Stylehive. They're pegs from an ad campaign by Belgian fashion designer Diane von Fürstenberg who became American in 2002, a year after she married media Goliath Barry Diller. I don't know her, but supposedly it's her grand comeback after the re-launch of her clothing line in 1997. The images simply looks pretty, especially on the white space here. Joining her in the campaign--which can be called cost-cutting when discussed here in Manila--are French artist François-Marie Banier, Russian model Natalia Vodianova and American advertiser David Lipman whose comment on the DVF-Banier project I find so anti-Adobe but nice altogether:

"In this world of plastic surgery, with so many images in magazines that are so retouched, to go in the opposite direction and show the soul of a woman is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my career. It's aggressive and strong in the most elegant way."

After a writer's strike, that can potentially spark a... make-HOLD-up. (Boink!) Imagine the extra space in photoshoots... and three more pizza boxes!

Click on any pic to see more preview of DVF's campaign. (I'd LOVE to write with a paintbrush.) And don't miss the video! It has a strangely-nice track like a mix of Amelie, Poltergeist and The Others that's somewhere between haunting and calming.

Each time somebody says "kumakain ng oras", I always run vivid pictures in my head.

And it looks like I'm right. Sorta.

If you see a bigger one, with spoon, fork and knife as hands, please please please give me a ring.

Ah, politics. So full and overflowing. So... life. I was just listening again to Susan Roces and President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo's verbal tennis back in 2005 in PCIJ's blogsite. I'd forgotten how fabulous women in Philippine politics were. I'd been moved by such an emotionally supercharged showdown filled with lola powers, drama and Tarayan For Dummies pointers that any fulfillment from any form of humor or endless Whitney Houston play loops could ever hope to bring pale in comparison. And I'm still in tears...

Which is why now I would like to share my... sentiments... on a very recent event that by itself could also move, shake and potentially change our lives forever:

KC Concepcion's debut on Philippine drama TV.
Yes, Sharon Cuneta's heir apparent to the Mega Throne (elite Transformers? phonetic corniness) finally arrives at the most vital key in owning Philippine show business and soon the country itself: TV drama. She starred in a Maalaala Mo Kaya episode last Friday, with Ricky Davao, Agot Isidro, Malou Santos, Derek Ramsay, Yayo Aguila and a teener who's name I didn't catch but won't search online until he admits he's gay. And by "star", it means STAR: She even did the voice over where Charo Santos-Concio's I Am Full Of Sympathy sounds/tone/voice should be halfway through the show. Heck I almost expected to see "Directed, produced, co-produced written, co-writted by KC Concepcion" in the end credits. Duh--are we talking about a Cuneta or what? It was entitled "Mansyon", and it's supposed to recount the riches-to-rags-to-married life life of a woman who lost her father, the family's sole breadwinner, when she was 19.

And yes--the episode jerked drops from my lids. Not because there were fantastic actors, but because, as Sue Thompson defends, Sad Things make me cry. Things like selling your fave stff because your dad's biz went bankrupt, breaking up with your yummy boyfriend, smashing your new cellphone to a wall, letting go of your yaya because you can't afford her anymore, falling in line under the sun for a clerical job even the pope would fall asleep on...

Anyway, KC. Her acting wasn't bad, yet it wasn't that good either. As a Mara Clara baby, I think she did well--well enough to make Marian Rivera and Angel Locsin to continue renovating their castle's defenses a little more. Yell at me right now if I'm wrong, but I see KC is happy this "tamed, sosyal colegiala" image she's got going on. Dangerously, it fits her. Good thing she finished college reportedly with very good standing. Her performance in the said episode is a proof of her genes: She was like a female version of Gabby Concepcion in P.S. I Love You (1991, with Sharon, where I crowned her character, Kristin, Lynchpin Of Everything Colegiala). Looked classy, spoken smart, moved... conservatively flirty. And she has the most beautiful face to boast too. Very. Wow. Although, while we know STARS should look ridiculously insanely perfect, it's advised that when you're portraying the life of a stressed out, penniless breadwinner teen, you ask the make-up artists to make you look the part. What, we turn on the TV to stare at chinas?

If my hearing is still any good, I say KC's done a good job keeping her native tongue. Her Tagalog, albeit being stiff on some edges, was almost fluent. Masa fans can easily relate with her now. No fuss with her American twang, of course. In fact her diction was so good it felt like I was listening to Lea Salonga in a decisive Dramathon Balagtasan finals--I heard even the dots (periods) in her sentences. Let's see how KC fares in her next acting stint... in full-Tagalog.

The tears. Again, by the Mara Clara code, she has more sad memories to bank. There are so many creatures crying on-screen today that you'd know Close-Open Tears--those stubborn tears that refuse to move unless you bat your eyelids to death--when you see them. ESPECIALLY when the actor starts to recall lines while trying to cry and show both while taping. Worst, it tends to make the actor stiff. And you don't want a stiff girl crying on screen. Only Jaclyn Jose has the right to that and N.O.B.O.D.Y. E.L.S.E.

Which reminds me: You know a showbiz dynasty is "progressing" in Manila when (a) a family member STARS in her own special episode, special show, special et cetera, (b) during gaps, you see her entire line of endorsements, (c) you see her on all the covers of magazines and tabloids and (d) you make the dreadful choice between the sun and her billboards in the EDSA traffic jam. Who ever invented the process of purga must be very anti-social and rigid. But sadly, no, over-over-over exposure doesn't redeem you from ineffective acting.

What's a good insulator? The Walking Tease that's Derek Ramsay. Those rugged looks. Those suggestive eyes. Those firm packs and lean, curvy limbs covered by thin clothes. That bald head can't resist but rub your palms on or that sexy jawline you can't wait to trace your fingers on... But no, his acting didn't help either.


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Weydaminit. If KC's planning on a movie, I have the purrfect idea of a ultramega blockbuster: KC Concepcion and Jewel Mische in a movie. It's about two sisters separated at birth, grew up in different cultures, say, like one in a family of economists and one in a family of FAMAS Awardees. In a fun-ny twist of fate they'd be brought back together in their 20s--with the natural longing to be sisters again at the start but, when the eldest sib discovers baby sib has been screwing with eldest sib's boybeef long before they became an item, ate decides to become the law in the newly established City of MOA--where BS and La Familia FAMAS live--in her hidden quest to turn BS's life a living hell. BS fights back, crash courses in BS Politics and BS Economics and earns herself a quintuple Phd, and files for mayorship just in time. Unknown to anyone else, the boyfriend has been triple crossing them from the very start. With their estranged, biological father deported to Qatar for pedophilia. Stick it, it's my story. Title and tagline suggestions:

Kambal (Not Once, But Twice!)
Kambal: Sino Ang Sinungaling, Sino Ang Magnanakaw?
Magkapatid (Nga Ba?)
Hello, Ate?
I'm Sorry (Not Once, But Twice) <--- should we decide to put premium on the boyfriend's role

Derek can play the boyfriend. Lino Cayetano can direct.

That's it. For those who are (and will be) inviting me to watch screenings of any sort of this ruckus: I will have to DEMAND free tickets, free ride from and to the house, free pizza, free fruit shakes and 3-5 throwpillows (plus the largest portion of the couch, should you decide to lock me up in your houses. And if I ever I do accept your invites, know that I am doing it out of charity and basic masochistic friendship).

Bright side: At least the material is consistent with the subject. That's effective advertising--something I'd wish I'm good at.

And the Xio is back.

Not with his mind, though...

But with magazine covers!

Eighteen faraway years ago, I was in kindergarten. 'Twas a blast. Probably because I was in a class where politics came first before learning to write your name ("I arrived first, so I should be first in line and no I'm only 6 feet tall." "You have candies; it's only right that you give everyone of us here in the bus or we'll throw you out." "My parents are richer than any of yours, hence I should get all the stars every dismissal."). The best part was, at 3-feet-1, I was at the helm of our Maskman gang--I played Black and yes, we were better than your Bioman's. It was half the reason why I had a fabulous childhood--the other being that I was still notoriously nice until the sixth grade.

It was in those short but quite full years that I became friends with a timid fatso named Kevin. He was a bit shy because he was... fat. Or so I've always believed. We literally spelled "10". On some days he'd get teased for moving slower than his vocabulary exercise--but that's when I always came in. With my stance which only fire ants would admire, no one dared bug him. I guess that made us best friends.

My brother and I would get up at 5AM, fight until 5:30 then hop on the school bus by 6. Then we'd sleep until we reach the small Montessori, which stood at the center of a private village a few minutes from our subdivision. Part of the school's "rearing" for the tods was its daily merienda. Me and my classmates would guess what's on the menu for the day, and I'd always get excited unless I hear "mayonnaise". I always sat beside Kevin whenever that happened.

A typical day at the school would be, as best as my selective amnesia allows: teasing latecomers (those who arrived after us), flag ceremony, gossip on the merienda, Writing, Art, recess, a "silent period" (We'd sit inside a small room doing... nothing. Seriously.), Math, playtime, a mini-brawl, early lunch, dismissal. I learned longhand writing before I learning how to spell my name. I also did well in Math, and my eerily excited teacher would ask me to solve equations the length of a page of a standard notebook during free time (It usually involved a 5 or a 7 or a 9 and lots and lots and LOTS of "+" signs). Kevin sat there to my left each time, feasting on our coloring books and doing the rest of the pages' white spaces. Our parents would finally arrive and we'd go home feeling absolutely proud of ourselves.

Behind the two school buildings, on a lot the size of a football court, stood a nipa hut about 10 feet high. Three ping-pong tables could fit in it. It was lined with two benches inside and it had a slide. The Kubo, we called it, was our little sanctuary. Graders dared not hangout there, kinders clearly ruled. Although I remember enjoying only half of it because Kevin, who already had asthma at his age, could only riot with us for so long. I'd see him sitting up the hut, sweating, while one of our teachers frantically tried to fan him with a cardboard. Then I'd ask the others to play another game--'coz, "Hoy pagod na 'ko! Iba naman!"--although I could've run some minutes more if only to show our custodian how much I hated her perfume. We'd content ourselves to storytelling on the Kubo's filthy floor and theorizing on Shaider's fate until the afternoon breeze (and the teach fanning Kevin) gets tired of cooling us off.

I wasn't sure how my last meeting with Kevin went. It was probably during a party where the adults tried to dress the kids as walking Christmas tree ornaments. I was a candy cane in polka dots and he was, well, don't laugh please, Santa. (Shut up, I WAS A CANDY CANE.) I no longer remember how we said goodbye for that day. But I'm sure that we were having the time of our lives in that party. All of us. Probably there were "See you again soon"s, only to realize after high school that they were simply innocent promises no one would be able to keep. Kevin flew for the States after that party.

I had two more best buds (and three more gangs) after him.

I don't know where Kevin and the rest of the "Maskmen!" are now, let alone if he's dropped his weight or still plays a sickly Santa. Which should be cute either way. My handwriting kinda sucks now due to massive... QWERTY-ing--sad. But I can now do multiplication, subtraction, division PLUS some Trigonometry. And I am now a master at Silent Periods. I still hate mayonnaise, but I will always treasure the memory of those cool afternoons in the dusty hut with Kevin and the gang.

Moral: Even muscles have feelings too. So if there's a gazillion of them screaming in front of you like this, please, think of very very very sad things. I couldn't. HAHAHA!

The Xio 9 miles away from the monitor: "Is that monster from Cloverfield driving that box/shuttle thingy?"

You can always easily spot a guy's table in an office.

At least now I can get away with my mini-Payatas of a desk. he-he ;>

GMA 7 and Regal Films' My Best Friend's Girlfriend had its premiere night yesterday at SM Megamall. In the Always Ecstatic crowd post-mortem, aired earlier today at Unang Hirit, a guy was asked for his "raves." And rave he did:

Moron: Ang ganda ng May Bespren's Gurlpren! Lalong-lalo na si Marian! Ang ganda-ganda ni Marian! Kahit sa dreams ko, binabangungot niya ako!!!

MBGF opens in Manila theaters on February 13.

So there's a double negative. First let me ask: Where the hell is the winner of the first (and last?) Philippine Idol aired in ABC-5 two years ago? Mau, was it?

Let's do the reverse.


WHY IT WILL NOT FAIL

1. The ratio of SIM cards to humans in the Philippines is 9,438:1. The ratio of "loading stations" to SIM-owners in the country is about twice that much. (Look behind you, there's one.) Pinoy's love txt-ing. Do the math; hurray! for network service providers.
2. The second original hit that started it all--American Idol, now on its 7th season--is still, well, a hit. As everyone was disappointed with how the first network TRIED TO handle the now-controversial franchise, it is but the peak of curiosity as to how GMA 7 will vie for the show's salvation. YES, it was utterly disappointing.
3. Younger judges. Come on. Aside from Ryan Cayabyab's, why would we swallow comments from a has-been rapper-forward slash-drug addict and an, um, ancient songstress who eats hairspray for breakfast? IknowIknow, I don't have a clue about good singing--but I do know how to follow my instincts. And time element. (I remember watching "audition episodes" of Philippine Idol where all Francis M. had to say was, "Okay" and "Ma'am Pilita?", to which Her Fabulousness would bridge, "Mr. C?" 'Twas a one-grandpa team.)
   
4. The host. THE. FUCKING. HOST. -ess. A lot of people will be tuning in, myself included, to watch Raymond Gutierrez man the show--watch being the operative word. Watch him move. Watch him speak. Watch him hide. Watch him restrain. Watch him slip... For that, another push at ratings. (It was reported that Paolo Bediones was considered to be host. He lost because the Idol "bible" restricts the age limit to 30. Bediones is 33. But I have this nagging feeling it wouldn't have been different and we would watch him too, if you get my pink drift.)
   
5. Until now, Pinoys can't get enough of "reality TV". It's pure escapism, and they can't be blamed: Between the painful truth of poverty and a weekly pause from it, of course they'll choose that additional hour of entertainment. Despite more power consumption and SMS cost in the next four months should they--and they will--join the polls in choosing the winner.

WHY IT WILL FAIL

1. It's airing on a Saturday night. When everyone is out on bars, movies, coffee shops, short times, blind dates and what-have-you. By the way, questions: Will Globe be joining Smart? Will voting be included in their Unlitxt-Unlitxtd- Sulitxt paella of confusions, I mean, services? Will there be flowery Raymond wallpaper downloads? Or "i R idol" with hearts logo downloads? How many coat changes will he have for every wallpaper? Will they be of bright colors?
   
2. The impending comparison with American Idol. Filipinos love anything Hollywood, foreign, and just about anything they don't understand but still adore for their flashiness. When it comes to TV shows, Hollywood is Bible. If the local media insists on Philippine-izing the show--which they should, in theory--they better be extremely careful and be ready to be snubbed by the picky, sophisticated Filipino viewers after the first three weeks. Put on something Britney-ish, will 'ya?
   
3. I like Jolina. She's cute and bubbly and refreshing. BUT: There'd be a lot of musicians who are just out of Jolen's... age bracket. They might not get her (at all). Thus a minus on credibility. I like funny guy Ogie. But I like the songs he writes more. AND SO: It's songwriting, not performing. Why couldn't they have picked the other womanizer Janno Gibbs, people would ask. Another minus. Wyngard, well, I don't really know him. Reports say he was a DJ and a talent manager, so maybe he can gauge a talent's record sales or something? And apparently he can sing, too. I like him for looking a little... fresher... than Pilita. Period.
   
4. The host. THE. FUCKING. HOST. (Be thankful I'm using that F-word and not the other one.) Just do all of us a favor and give a straight answer to this question: Would you rather host Pinoy Idol, or snag your's sister's role in Philippines' Next Top Model?
5. In September, when the first "Pinoy Idol" will have been named, what happens next? StarStruck has had four sets of winners. One female is now pregnant; one male has a semi-dwindling following, if only for the redundant and tiring chain of hook-ups and break-ups. The rest, well, you'd have to go online to find news on them. Pinoy Pop Superstar had several batches of "promising talents" as well. And so did Coca-Cola Ride To Fame/ Yes To Your Dreams. They're supposed to be big-time talents now with massive Pilipino recognition, but unfortunately for me I don't know even their names (And I occasionally watch TV and visit record bars too). Do you? If the point of the show is to produce homegrown talents for locals to love and perhaps look up to, and these champions routinely pull an Amelia Earhart some two months after winning, then it's all a waste of airtime and txt credits.

But I am nothing more than an idealistic mutt. With highlights.

---

Mau Marcelo, who didn't have an original composition for her victory song in 2006, went to Jakarta last December to compete in the first Asian Idol (it's always The First nowadays). She lost to a Singaporean named Hady Mirza. She performed Gloria Estefan's Reach and Dulce's Ako Ang Nasawi, Ako Ang Nagwagi. Ironically, it would seem her showbiz career has that last song backwards. Hopefully, it won't happen to The First Pinoy Idol. But somehow I doubt it.

I just got back to my feet from a ruined night. ANOTHER set of neighbors was it again: This time it was a straycatfight which sounded like a primer to the looming March 15 boxing shit-haha from up my room. At half past 1AM. Which hurled me to a few theories:

1. Our power- and sanity-challenged subdivision, left with the choices to either self-destruct or send its ridiculously many canines to other villages to spread rabies and gossip, is currently experiencing a regression to the Ice Age. And it is threatening to stay there unless the residents at least manages comprehension of time and tact.
2. All this time our house has been surrounded by Nazis-on-a-sex-diet and we had no idea.
3. Had we gotten an anaconda for a pet 20 years ago, we could have trained it to be an aggressive burglar alarm and let it hangout on the roof after midnight.
4. Had we gotten a dragon for a pet before the anaconda, I could have tied it by the gates, thus a constant warning to dimwits planning to spread idiocy. (Chicco suggested sending the dragon into the neighbor's caves and let it sneeze a lot. But then my beloved pet would have been exposed to barbaric attacks, and so I'd gladly do the cremation myself.)
5. We're in China and there's a national ban on... F4.
6. Marian "Marimar" Rivera--who's allegedly allergic to dogs, and yet cuddles with one in her Thalia rip-off every other night--still refuses to raise her voice pitch. People confuses her for Sergio when they aren't looking at the tube, and they simply can't accept the humiliation from that grave mistake...
   
7. Erap supporters are so jealous of Rodolfo Lozada Jr. and the attention he's getting from nuns (video here) that there's an uproar demanding a re-enactment of the former prexy's exit from Malacañang back in 2001--with nuns, Manny Pacquiao and the Zaido.
8. There had been secret boinking between their children and the brothers fighting two weeks ago and there's only one biological girl in that group.
9. Other creature's tempers go crazy wanky when I'm hungry and/or doing something worthwhile.
   

Wait, that's it! The last time the neighbors tried to slit each other's throats, I was starving... and watching Maging Sino Ka Man. Last night, my tummy grumbled when I reached page 49 of my new book. And both time I was in my bedroom! Woah.

Page 50.

--

Suddenly I know what my Chinese New Year Resolutions are. I never thought I'd be needing them, and now apparently I do. And this is a first, as I'm not Chinese as opposed to what linear minds readily conclude whenever they hear my name:

I will re-think my eating habits and make sure I schedule my hungry moments away from our house.
I will avoid being productive when I'm in the subdivision. Which can be good, as it consequently means neglecting household expenses.
To be extra sure, I will read odd-number pages faster than I do evens.
On the next brawl I will tune in to FM radio to experience more the cosmos's unrivaled humor (read below).
I shall invest on a digital voice recorder and a new digicam. So everybody will know I'm not bluffing.
When a stranger asks for my name, I will say Rasputin.

--

Then the recount of usi's:

Chicken's asshole 1: Sabi ko nga sa kanya, "Lumaban ka, lumaban ka!"
Chicken's asshole 2: Kung ako gu-ma-non, kasi ibig sabihin hindi na ako lalaban, suko na ako...
Chicken's asshole 3: Kaya nga ako gumitna na ako. Sabi ko, "Anokaba hindi na lumalaban si Macky! Kung gusto mo ako na lang ang suntukin mo!"

Some silence. Presumably they were in a here's-what-we're-gonna-do huddle. Then...

C. A-hole 1: Sabi ko nga sa kanya, "Lumaban ka, lumaban ka!"
C. A-hole 2: Kung ako gu-ma-non, ibig sabihin hindi na ako lalaban, suko na ako...
C. A-hole 3: Kaya nga ako gumitna na ako. Sabi ko, "Anokaba hindi na lumalaban si Macky! Kung gusto mo ako na lang ang suntukin mo!"

I went to get some bread downstairs, climbed back to my room, and...

C. A-hole 1: Sabi ko nga sa kanya, "Lumaban ka, lumaban ka!"
C. A-hole 2: Kung ako gu-ma-non, ibig sabihin hindi na ako lalaban, suko na ako...
C. A-hole 3: Kaya nga ako gumitna na ako. Sabi ko, "Anokaba hindi na lumalaban si Macky! Kung gusto mo ako na lang ang suntukin mo!"

At the exact same time, I swear, Whitney Houston's Try It On My Own played on the radio. It's true, the Philippines is the happiest race.

In the game called KSP--Kulangot Sa Puwet--only the first point matters. Whoever gets it automatically wins and gets to stomp on your pretty little loser face for the rest of the day. Say you're working on a most important deadline of your life--like Friendster comments and Youtube downloads--and here barges an elephant of an A.D.H.D. case worthy of the most potent vial HIV in the universe. It makes sounds, passes by your desk, makes more bore-about-to-be-slaughtered noises and does shitty craploads of nonsense just to get even the attention of the ants sleeping underground two blocks away. What do you do? Three choices:

A. Use that bazooka grandpa gave you last Christmas.
B. Show off that bazooka to your neighbors. Then use it.
C. Pretend neither of you exists... because you have 57 more clips to view and it's almost lunchtime.

No, sorry, succumbing to the self-absorbed disturbance's barbaric efforts is NOT an option. By succumbing, it means paying attention--any effing form of it, e.g. stirring in your seat, answering dumb questions it asks every single effing day, asking it to tone it down... basically letting it know that you are affected by its stinky presence when it should be placing itself in the middle of an extremely busy highway. In a straight jacket.

Acknowledging the booger's efforts is when it gets that First Point and you know what that means.

Fuck hospitality. The last man on mute wins.

Sometimes serious underachievers get to your nerves for being fatally boring. What makes it worse is when you get the shortest stick and end up the victim of their towering good-for-nothing-ness:

Wet restroom door knobs.

And if you're way luckier:

Wet rest room door edges.

Culprits, shit on your soup and eat it.

And I thought my lovelife was eerie.

Fantastic photos and more secrets of the American ways here.

There live a family of dragons in Makati. There's Heljon, the doctor by day-barista by night father; Mavia Ezze Ngera, the stewardess mother; and Kaycee, the long-bodied eccentric son.

This year is finally Kaycee's coming of age and, as a clan tradition, he gets to ask his parents for The One Greatest Gift. And, as another tradition, as it is to be The One Greatest Gift, only one parent should be able to give it. Yes, a contest: The one who loses dies a gruesome death. The winner gets to meet Oprah. Such is the reason why dragons of their ancestry avoid having kids at all costs. Now why and how China missed out on that moral, no one really knows...

And so the quest for Kaycee's One Great Gift began. Ravaging towns, ransacking Malate, ruining Tubathaha and interrogating MMDAs, Heljon and Mavia have searched and searched for the cursed thing. Nothing else but their lives are at stake, and both clearly have no plans of dying before the De Venecias and the Macapagals piss and make up... --kiss, I mean kiss.

"Bummer. How will they do it...? Lethal injection? Gas chamber? Sarah Geronimo's Forever's Not Enough on an endless loop???" Heljon was beginning to worry. While considering pulling a Bin Laden to postpone his apparent doom, he luckily chanced upon Froilan The Whiz in one of his pit stops. He immediately consulted his dilemma to the modern wiseman, and the rocker-lover-sage, confident but sincere, tipped him to find the legendary One Ampao, said to contain magical coupons that could grant its finder any wish. "That's it!" Heljon thought, "That's my ticket to survival! ... And Shakira!!"

Little did he know that Mavia had already sought Froilan's help. And hadn't the old man, on his 30th mug of gin, slipped on her bribe for him not to tell Heljon, the lagging hubby wouldn't have stormed out Pegasus to catch up on Mrs Sneaky... And if he knew the instinctive her, there's only one place she'd overturn if only to find the One Ampao.

SM.

Drop that brow. You know you love that mall too. Here, I got pictures of their/our adventure:



Finally, the competitors found the One Ampao. And all hell broke loose, putting EVERYONE to a stop in showbiz-y amusement...

Of course there are those who could care less:

I'm not sure how it ended up for the couple. I lost interest when we passed by Lapid's Chicharon. But, so as to give some kind of ending to this idiotic story: I could've been the winner when I saw Kaycee on my way out...




P.S. pics:

I was never the type who'd whip out expensive gadgets from my insides in an alley, an open store, a PUJ, a PUB, other PUVs or any other place that wasn't meant for flashing privates or anything else that shouldn't be bruised unless insured.

And I've never been the type who'd generously show courtesy in PUJs. Last night, on my way to the darkest place ever--the house, which pathetically stood in the middle of a block where power has been dead for about 15 hours as of this writing because of some electrical dipshit damage up some Meralco post, pant--I rode an empty jeep. And I sat comfortably, of course, resting my left thigh and knee on the clear bench. A hundred heartbeats later, a woman hopped on and splatted her enormous ass RIGHT ON MY LIMB.

Instinctively, my eyes went on ruler mode and tried to measure the gargantuan object that had hit me: Twelve feet of vacancy and it HAD to POUND my knee? I don't think so.

I summoned what remaining force I had and mightily pulled my poor joint from under the boulder. Bad enough as it was, my back also hit the corner of the jeep. It was tough, but it paid off: Lady Blob sensed my brewing Sparta, turned her head and apologized. I just wished she'd had moved her pregnant butt first, though, before syllabicating apology and waiting for a response that would never come willingly.

I gripped my bag strap, forced a smile and, as she snailed her luggage away, rolled my eyes and looked the other way, praying that I won't see a baseball bat lying on the street. Bad place, bad time...

Anyway, the gadgets. To my dismay, I can't seem to control myself and I keep on taking pictures using my phone. Alone. Normally, I'd have to be in a huddle of club bouncers before I check my 2-inch coin purse. But now, daylight or dawn, alone and in the middle of crime infested streets, I bravely use my phone which costs more than thrice my measly salary. But I can't help it! There's so many "sights" that are just too... fun... to be missed. Like a vandal that reads, BAWAL UMIHE DITO GAGO. Or a sign that says, Wanted Helfer. Or a free ad that reads: "Wanted: Lady bedspacer, MALE OR FEMALE students apply inside". See? Would you let those slip immortality through photos?

I'm gonna keep doing this. So the next time a lugger pool of an ass hits me, me and my chainsaw will be ready.

MMDA, with pen and ticket, to a traffic violator...


MMDA: Name?

Foreigner driver: Wilhelm von Corgrinski Papakovitz

MMDA: Ahhh... Next time be careful.


(Hello, HRH Jjun!)

Here's a lovely quote:

"If you run out of reasons to live, remember that someone else's life may never be complete without you in it."

Truncated, the piece is lovelier when understood for its reality:

"If you run out of reasons to live, remember that someone else's life may never be complete without you in it...

... like the BIR, Citibank, Meralco, Maynilad, McDonald's, Jollibee, the MMDA, your mom's bank account and the posonegro."

Have a fun week (of bills and VAT) ahead! :-D

Venting is healthy. After all, life's too short for suppressed feelings, even if it's your subdivision you so want a meteor to destroy. BUT: a friendly piece of advice: NEVER EVER iron your clothes on a bad hair day.

Ouch.

The next time your beautiful granny offers to finish your laundry, be a Nickelodeon brat and JUST SAY YES.

Boo-hoo... :-(

Thanks for the, uh, effort, but whoever thought of this as inviting in any sick way should take a crash course in basic aesthetics. Or environmental sanitation. Or maybe just hang himself.

I mean, how scary and ICKY can you get?

---

This is the right way to do it. Poke your market's loin-ish, carnal interests and you can get at least a thousand counter "hits" a day--no matter how sad your spot in a mall foodcourt is. Perverted... and cheap! Sounds real satisfying. :-D

Now I know why men love bowling.

No wonder as a kid I only got one new pair of shoes a year... which also probably backs my theories on why I ended up in a school by a wet market in highschool. Sighs.

Take a very long and appreciative look, for this will NEVER happen again.

Yes, I scored actual freaking points in bowling! Where, when and HOW can that possibly happen to a sports dunce like yours truly--I do not know. Call it sheer luck and cuteness. And do you see that? DO YOU FUCKING SEE THAT?! A STRIKE!

Of course I had to go back to my magnificent idiotic bowler-self some hours later...

... but who cares--I scored! Real points! AND THERE'S AN X! I got X-ed! Fabulous letter. Killer. ;>