The Paostian Deal

It took me long but at least now I know what tongues been wagging about. Call me a fashionably late-bloomer. Besides, my nerves need time to recuperate before I continue on my also-belated Lost journey. I've never really liked gossip, especially if it's not about me, but three episodes to Gossip Girl's first season, I became an instant monger fan. And you can be, too.





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Or just love the fashion, if not the overrated shallow plot. Hey, you were teens too. I hope GG lands one more season. Stars, from top pic, Leighton Meester, Blake Lively, Chace Crawford, shut-up-he's-my-new-surname Penn Badgley, Ed Westwick, Taylor Momsen, Matthew Settle and Kelly Rutherford.


Now go buzz! xoxo

Got the photos from here.

Oh yeah: Last weekend I did Part 1 of my annual room cleaning--Parts 2 and 3 come later in the year--and no it wasn't some figurative self-cleansing of sins in lieu of "Easter". I pay taxes and inhale second-hand smoke for that. My bedroom-cum-wilderness was just too messy even dust found it disgusting. And 7th Heaven was driving me nuts.

I even half expected to find relics of a dodo somewhere behind the TV stand. But, more entertainingly, I found two ticklers I used in college sleeping in a drawer I hadn't opened in four years. Make that discover, as I thought I'd stashed all schooling artifacts in my treasure cabinet long before I received my first official payslip.

I flipped and sneered and laughed. It's rather too soon, but I felt like I was thrown back to an ancient age. One thing you can be sure of: all people who use ticklers have flip sides. Flip-per, even. I always carried with me a tickler as a student, helping me keep track of life's chaos on one hand and keeping me breathing in dead-boring moments on the other. Leafing through those two even after just a few years was like reviewing a past life you both want to publish and burn to oblivion. Either way it's fun reminiscing. That's the best thing about annual cleaning--it's full of dirty surprises.

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Thanks to Ras, a tri-athlete hopeful who also loves dark places, for tugging at my sleeve on this. And Sydney, Australia.

Here's a very nice stint. On March 29, 20 countries, including the Philippines, will turn off their lights from 8 to 9PM. It's called Earth Hour 2008. It's self-imposed regression to the Ice Age and it couldn't get any more fabulous.

It's to reduce our impact on global warming. Pause iTunes for a minute and learn:


March 29, Dealers. 8PM. One hour. Get in touch with your dark side--ONLY literally, smart ass. For Mum Nature.

And feel free to lock the front doors and windows while you're at it.

So do NOT pick up if you're waiting for a call from that contact center and you just woke up.

Do NOT follow up on 7-year-overdue debts when you're feeling ecstatic.

And do NOT EVER talk to your seaman best friend's lonely wife when you're horny.

Yesterday morning I sat beside a fat lady in an almost-packed jeep. Some three minutes into the trip the driver pulled over to get more passengers. He kept calling out, "Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan (Left, right, left, right)." But we could only try to fit one more in our side. A medium-built guy climbed on.

"Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan..." I moved a little to my right to signal the vacancy. The lady, on the other hand, was mini-hopping left-and-right. "Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan!" I bit my lip because I didn't want to smile. The vehicle began to move but the new passenger was still waiting for a seat. "Kaliwa, kanan, kaliwa, kanan!" Manong Driver sped up.

And Mrs Hopster parted her thighs and occupied the entire space--almost panting--I felt bitter defeat. Not to mention, laughter that could very well have gotten me killed boiling up inside.

This morning, another lady almost shot a different jeepney driver out of sheer annoyance. While we were nearing the shuttle's station, he called out in the vernacular, Those who haven't paid their fare, please do it now. There was dead response. He called out again, this time adding: There's still one passenger who hasn't paid the fare, whoever you are please do so now." I was looking from end-to-end waiting for even a flinch, I was so cute, but to no avail.

Then Manong said very loudly: That one on the left side, hey did you pay up?

"Ay, mataba pala (Oh, a fat one)."

I dunno what's going on in the Plus-Size universe but yeah, the passenger took spaces for two. "May problema ho kayo, manong (You got a problem, sir)?" she retorted. I faked a cough and a yawn while looking at street signs.

Tsk, tsk. Panic. Confusion. Fatal hysterics.

I therefore conclude we need an allowance of at least two more days before going back to work after a long weekend. At least for the sake of jeepney drivers.

It's official: I can talk to cats. Sort of.

I was sighing there on the polka-dot chair, when this grey cat with black stripes and yellowish eyes came from the shadows a.k.a. the garage that was unlit-because-I-couldn't-get-inside-to-turn-the-freaking-lights-on-dammit. She stopped and we looked eye to eye. I knew this cat. She was the great grandchild of that stray cat who adopted herself to our house 20 years ago, along with the other village stray cats. Someone had to break the comic silence.

Wiss-wiss, I said. No, wait, 'twas more like just /w/ and /s/, no i sound.

"Wss-wsss."

She blinked. I was caught unaware. Normally cats would just stare at me no matter what movement or sound I make or how fresh or old the bread or leftover is I throw at them. But this time she blinked, and if I'm not mistaken she bowed a bit, like a Hippogriff smelling Harry Potter's shoes. Then the cat walked closer! I was about to go wiss again but she suddenly turned a bit and began sniffing--or licking?--the plant's leaves. Major whoa. Now I know what "Wss-wsss" means. "Go smell the flowers."

I took a walk later that night and came across a dog. Dumbo be me, I said, "Wss-wsss." He growled. I called a passing tricycle.

1. I'm being kicked out of the house, I txt-d Friends after realizing after the 99th ding-dong that no one was home. Wait, let's be more accurate: They locked me out. At first I thought it was my siblings' evil plan to punish me. But why is it my problem that we never agree when it comes to fashion? I like drab and they like trash. At least mine are branded. Then I realized: it wasn't my siblings, but the people my siblings are seeing! I'm rarely a welcoming party--especially after midnight after coming from work, only to see that the house is only a pole away from being a toxic bar. They romanced their way to my sibs' nerves and brainwashed them to lock me out, which is frustrating because I've been rehearsing like mad to do just that to them. Damn!
2. Yet if it wasn't my siblings who'd planned stranding me to the gate, then who? I still have a month before my insurance fee lapses... And earlier that day I didn't glare at that fugly maid who does nothing but flirt with the village guard. I also forgot about nuking the neighbor's car altogether. Fuck, are Sarah Geronimo fan clubs after me again? Screw you, blockheads, rot, rot, rooooot!
3. I was doubly frustrated because I was already way late for a nightout. I was seeing Friends from high school and I couldn't take off without changing shoes. Then a phone call and a peculiar txt message: both from ancient exes. And both was inviting me to hook up. I know. I KNOW. WHY? What did I ever do to them? After everything, can't I just live in peace? What ever happened to "moving on"?
4. What's not clear to me, still, is why some girlfriends keep on treating their boyfriends' houses as a hotel. What, too comfy with the relationship everything begins to be conjugal while their men rent other private rooms behind their backs? Or were they kicked out of their houses because they sleep over in other houses too much? Lucky me then I only got locked out. And lucky me there's always just the two of us whenever I sleep over.
5. After three pitchers of Badboy I non-cautiously asked a friend about this gal whom I remember each time I see him. He just shrugged, and he grew silent. Oops. Then he said, "You know, she's still the one." Even the guy staring at me from the next table flinched. It's been almost eight years and "she's still the one", even though both of them have new attachments now. It may be from HS and quite laughable, but really, why does first love never die? Then again I too should know the feeling: Yellow Cab will never go bankrupt. Or any other pizza place for that matter.
6. Why was it titled "10,000 B.C."? Should have been "10,000 Brokeback". Watch it.
7. Why have we been so hard on Janina San Miguel? If a Venezuelan beauty queen struggles with her English in front of everyone, would we laugh and stab so hard too? After all, Manny Pacquiao did win that feather thingy in boxing. Can a Miss(ed) World crown be far behind?Why have we been so hard on Janina San Miguel? If a Venezuelan beauty queen struggles with her English in front of everyone, would we laugh and stab so hard too? After all, Manny Pacquiaodid win that feather thingy in boxing. Can a Miss(ed) World crown be far behind?
8. And why is it called "Featherweight"? Do you have to be super light to box? In that case I'm definitely never gonna enter any arena lest I go more anorexic than I already malnourished-ly am.
9. For a few minutes I stared at this... plant. It kept swaying to the wind, sometimes appearing to fall to the side. But the pot is broken on the other side, so it had already suffered its own Babel. Now the wind kept blowing and the plant was like teasing the wind to try harder, if not mocking it for its puniness. Moral: If you can't beat them, use an axe.

I balleted back and forth, in circles, in straight, zigzag and crooked lines. Attempted quintuple arabesques--upside down! Heck I even tried counting Mississippis. But all those ate only 15 minutes. And I felt my small intestine was already planning a coup with her big twin. Sank my firmness to a polka-dot monobloc chair--yes, a seat resembling a pimply, freckle-faced pubescent with chicken pox, and no, I took no pic. Instead, I have these:

That shell was lying in a corner by the gate. It looked old but was striking white--it lounging by the entrance makes me wonder how I never noticed I lived in the sea. The chair, like Marvin Agustin, was ick-ing me out, so I pranced away and picked up the molluscan apartment.

It was grand and silent at the same time, almost mesmerizing. I didn't know if it's real or not, but I was so admiring its beauty I wanted to take it to the neighbors--who just rammed up its gangster sounds to Everest levels--and have them lick it from end to end. And yes, you got me; I gave justice to hearsay and put the gaddamn thing near my right ear to let nature commune with me... I wanted to challenge the proverbial sound of the sea, after all I could use all the nature's calming I could get... Then the bonus: voices.


"Peter Piper picked a pecked of pickled pepper,
and a pickled pecker the pervert Peter already keeps."


"Pizza, pasta... pizza, pasta... pizza, pasta..."





HOLY SHIIIT OF OPRAH!

Unless some crapbag pieces it back together, that shell won't be whispering to any ear anymore. Ever.

Once again the universe waved its colossally annoying hand and made the world less attractive. Last night, while I was in a jubilant mood because of the long weekend, my entirety was struck with stupidity far worse than D-Wars:

I was locked outside the house.

Locked. Outside. Of my own freaking house. With no warning. I wanted to breathe SARS on the neighbors' faces. I was dying to pee, for barfing out loud! Pulling a Lassie was a pathetic option, but dengue scares the hellouta me. So I waited.

For two hours. Two I-now-officially-hate-cement-and-dried-leaves fucking hours.

But of course it was the eve of a lovely vacation and was too beautiful to go to waste. There were five hours before I turned back into a mantis and someone had to take my mind off the shit or I'd go ballistic on the nosy help next-door. Someone helpful in crappy times like this. Someone nice. And ravishingly cute.

Me.

Caught this pic on a random Friendster profile. But the account was restricted to VIPs so all I got was that the owner is based in Japan.

And the shoutout read:

"I'm losing you, I know it clouds are falling on my head and I'm holding on to memories gonna stitch myself to her threads."

I'm still decoding the message. But I'm so moved right now. Sigh.

Saw a post on… well I dunno what that litany really was. But man was it long, and I’m reluctant to post a link because… um, Janina San Miguel should remain queen at least for a couple more weeks. Or until she passes Lucio Tan’s English course with plying colors. Flying. Whatever. Try to be nicer, will ya? The post described the author’s ongoing Ugly Duckling journey from weakling to bully to blabbering geek. Anyway, like how the aura of the Semana Santa drives everyone to a trance, the article pushed me to remember more of my younger days. When our group used to command silence when passing by school corridors and get free snacks courtesy of my classmates’ moms. Everybody loved us. But that’s history and there’s nothing to be really ecstatic about: I still look like a frog and sound like a duck. So there.

The aw-tor recounted how he endured bullies in grade school, fought back in high school and finally joined them in college. Yes, Dealers, bumigay rin si gago. Fifteen years of hypocrisy, two months of adolescence and maybe an overdue circumcision later, he decided that the darker side is way more fun than his halo country. If anyone will be asked to choose between being a weakling and a bully, Specs wrote, I’m sure anyone will choose the second. Isn’t he smart?

Aren’t we smart?

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Encore: But soon he reverted to the loser that he was, saying he always knew he had a Samaritan in him all along. Which I debunk because he prolly just misses the peculiar feeling that can only be brought by rough, man hands. So that puts him back to Aisle Wuss, at the corner of Moron. Now we are definitely smarter.

This one I re-copied from Joan Joyce, Malu Fernandez' new BFF.

1. The only way to understand a boss is through the cake he eats during a staff meeting. If he orders it all for himself, then the company is in good hands, for he doesn't need to suck up because the Advertising is doing a good job and his bank account is in the fag of health. If he distributes plates, then you know you won't be having a great weekend for the next 3 months.
2. As always, the only way to end a meeting on-a-loop is to say yes to everything.
3. An effective way to scare muggers away is to look like a hoodlum yourself. Just frown and think miserable thoughts, like the Malacañang.
4. The only way to enjoy Meet The Spartans is to not take it seriously. Seriously.
5. But if you plan to take it seriously, use a torrent.
6. If I will take the film seriously, I shall never look at pizza the same way ever again. Eww.
7. Step Up 2: The Streets has some fantastic street beats--but NOT the gangster boom-boom ones. The opening scene was fun. And that final dance under the rain was funtastic. One other way it's ahead its predecessor it that it has a better plot ending: Stay away from me you out-of-school youth freaks, I'm makin' out with a hot white boy now! Fab.
8. When latecomers barge in on the opening credits, looking for a 20-seat row in a regular theater for everyone to witness, take a deep breath, make sure you're heard within a mile-radius, and ask, "Are we in a coliseum?" Trust me, it works
9. One way to bring hilarious confusion back into your life is to hear a tricycle driver ask you, "Sa'n tayo, 'te? Ay--'pre? (Where to, miss? Err--sir?)" But if you get THIS in a bar, well, then...
   

The Vatican lists new sins to pay for. It highlights offenses against Mother Earth. I see galactic bans on Sarah Geronimo "songs". Woohoooooooo!

Plus, in the middle of the ruckus that is the Janina "Aha-ha-ha" San Miguel headliner, my favorite Melanie Marquez finally butts in. (The clip has horrible images, just pay attention to the audio.)

THEN, when I twirled on my storeroom of a desk, I saw this:


I knew this was going to be a fun week. :-D

It’s been a week and I have yet to succeed in helping an officemate with her dilemma: a slogan. She asked for help to write some sort of a guiding principle which our finance manager asked her to create after the manager had been asked by the prexy to do it. In the third world, it’s all hand-me-downs even with tasks. The sad thing is, despite my officemates’ much appreciated faith in my “creativity”, I cannot produce a single decent line. The slogan should point the need a.k.a. importance of cost-cutting via cutting back on electricity and other consumption. So far these adaptations are all I got:

Thrifty is the best policy.

Save energy, save lies (and promises of pay hike).

To be thrifty is human, to hike wages divine.

Thriftiness is next to salary increase. Ness.

To save or not to pay hike—but that is the question.

Kung ako sa’yo, magtitipid ako. (If I were you, I’d save up.)

A (telephone) bill is mightier than the (pay)slip.

Money talks. We’re done talking.

Love is blind. Stop loving expenses.

Bills speak louder than adjustments.

History repeats itself. Spending on the VP’s gas shouldn’t.

Wage hike is stranger than the management.

Cut expenses now. Save and ye shall find… a thank you note from sir. And maybe a lash curler.

The best things in life are free. Our utilities suck.

Waste not, but still want not.

All good things come to an end. You’re too good in spending.

All spend and no save makes Jack an asshole. Are you Jack?

If you can’t beat budgets, slit your throat.

What doesn’t kill you makes you lucky. Overspending is a whole other thing.

Beggars can’t be choosers. Use candle light for your desk.

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Now before I and my officemate get axed, you got real suggestions?

This morning I rode a jeep with two lovers. The guy was your average kind of bachelor--employed, clean cut and pays for his girlfriend's fare when commuting to work. Of course, in return, he gets to "touch" his girl's "bruised" leg for other motorists to see... as long as he agrees to everything she says, too. The lady, on the other hand, and naturally, was a radio disguised as a human being. Complementary angles. I gather she grew up from the tougher side of town, as she speaks... quite confidently. She got some looks too, but I soon realized that she's surnamed Can't Have It All: blessed physically... and that's it. Tall, fair skin, cute smile... and that's it. Then the lovers' talk became interesting:


A motorbike zoomed past the jeep.


I eyed Mr. Average and I knew we were both lost.


It was like the air was suddenly filled with nitrous oxide. I was liking it because what choice do I have on a Monday morning? The show continued:


The longer the traffic held us up under the peeking sun, the harder it got for me to hold back laughter. I pretended to examine every single thing on the street in a desperate move to hide my near-outburst. But there was more:



I was pulling a Linda Blair and my head was so 180-degrees I should've just stuck it outside and wait to be decapitated. She probably meant lust and love. And her man was again lost in her punyverse. But I do get her principle, sort of: Everything will be understood "as long as you know what you mean". They were simply talking about a barbarian and both knew how violent he can get--and a whore and how much she's still jealous of her while he dismisses the whole thing since he now has a new toy. So they're having a conversation and that's okay. Everything will be fine "as long as you know what you mean". She needed to keep her linguist face up No Matter What and he knew he had to support her even if it racks his brains out. Most importantly: everything may be "touched" in public... "as long as you know what you mean".

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AND here's DAH-t girl's sister in fate. Faith.

... turned volleyball turned badminton turned relay turned track-and-field turned cha-cha turned whew! 'Twas an amazing round!

It's almost half past 3PM, and Yuna had already been up even before roosters cried that morning. Five more piles, she tells herself, I hope the grocery won't close up on me: The fridge is empty and it's only Wednesday. The hag clearly hates me—she returns these reports just today and she wants all of them back tomorrow? She really needs to get laid, Yuna grins at the bright monitor.

“Yunie, girl, yosi?” poofs Cathy from nowhere, a new pack of Lights in her right hand.
“No, thanks. I'm trying to quit,” Yuna reaches for a folder, hitting her mug which almost tipped over.
“Right...”
“Dan hates the smell. I'm quitting.”
“Well, suit yourself. Hey have you RSVP-d to Maan's shower?”
“It's her seventh wedding,” her eyes also disgusted by the red marks all over the recommendations page glaring at her.
“Well, the girls and I are going. It's free drinks!” two sticks now in Cathy's left hand.
“What the—she wants the shoot with THIS budget? What are we, rats?” Yuna wasn't listening, the paper almost got crumpled.
“Wait 'till you see how she wants the planning next month. One word: Victoria—and not the one outside Pasig. I heard we might even do potluck...”

Yuna sighs. It's the two-day operations planning for next year and the company executives are sitting in—and their boss doesn't want to spend even on food. “I'd fry her and serve her instead.”

“Ha-ha! Come on—just one stick. For that stress...”
She finally looks at her friend, bites her lips and shakes her head. “Fine. Laters,” out goes Cathy.

Another sigh. She drops the folder, sinks to her seat. What are we going to feed those... Corinthian-ers? It would have been good if they were like Edward, Yuna pictures her husband in her head. He'll eat anything—heck, he'll eat my cooking!

“Hmm... wow... Hon, it's possible that I am now the most confused person on earth. Tell me: is this adobo, or menudo?” talked Edward after swallowing a bite during dinner last Saturday.
“Hon, it's kare-kare,” she patiently snapped back.
“Oh, I see. This is... uh, pork?”
“That's a cabbage. Or... pork...” Yuna squinted for a better look.
“Bah, who cares? It's edible!” he took another bite. And somehow the table ended up in laughter and a lovelier night followed.

And Yuna is still laughing shyly about it on her seat three days later. Lucky she found a husband who's as sweet as he is honest and as romantic as he is natural. As childhood friends they spent their days lounging under three old trees in the middle of a green field. They even buried a time capsule, and now as reminiscing adults they feel more original than TV dramas doing the same. Then five years ago, Edward proposed to Yuna on a yacht he borrowed from his rich friend. Under the moon, not far away from the shore, he popped the question... sort of:

“My friends will all laugh at me if you reject me tonight and I don't think I could live with the sadness for the rest of my life and I just want to be with you forever and...” he spent almost five minutes on his knees babbling. So she took the ring, put in on her finger, and asked Edward if he will marry her instead. The comic memory of their romance always makes her grin. Maybe I should just buy microwaveable stuff tonight, Yuna thinks, but quickly dismisses herself—it won't be good for Dan.

Dan, who loves the beach, is their firstborn whose laughter is the best music to their ears. And like any other mom she wants all the best for the 3-year-old—even if it means sticking to a high-paying advertising job and putting up with bosses from Alcatraz. But it never really bothered her either: She finds great content waking up to her son's face every Sunday morning, and becomes very much eager to turn what supposedly is her rest day as a never-ending play day with Dan. She wishes it was already Sunday...

Then, like a miracle, she suddenly finds herself rising from the low seat, invigorated. Like she hasn't moved a muscle since waking up that morning. She sees Cathy walk back in with other officemates, each with a pack of cigars, and they exchange smiles. Looking back to her desk, her eyes bumps on a mark on her calendar, in a squiggly handwriting by a kid:

May 19
Beeach wid MOm!

Five more piles—chicken!—she's confident as she can get. After all, it's only 3:33. Yuna picks her half-full mug, takes a sip, smiles and goes back to the bleeding piece of paper.

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An attempt at making some sense on an overworking air-conditioning unit and and empty stomach.

What keeps you going?

Last night, a Friend told me in the vernacular: "I believe you because you don't lie." Tears wanted roll down my rough cheeks, but instead I just thanked him: After all, he is prettier than William Hung. More than that, it came to me that even though there are only a few of them left, I still have some to call Friends.

Today is my annual Friends Day. Which means I get to bash all of them even more and nastier. And they get to reciprocate. And I will let them handful enjoy the moment by not retaliating. I'm the sweetest piece of ass and we all love each other.

Want to join the celebration? Review your Christmas greet- and gift lists, your birthday calendars and vacation trip schedules. DON'T add anything. Instead, skip family members. Skip officemates who you've just met these past two years. Skip exes. If you can, skip neighbors especially who love fruitcakes. Then those left are most probably your Friends. Don't kid yourself by thinking those 76 names you got drunk with just twice--on different occasions, of course--are included. But if they are, then good for you. I know it's tedious, but I think these over-rating days it's useful to say Friends than friends because it separates the real from the reel.

Anywoo, now, put those mobile phones to good use and send them a "Hi, Name!". If you have extra time, a What's up? ('Sup?, Zup? or whazzever). If you have extra extra time, put those Friendster, Multiply, YM, IM and what-have-you accounts to better use and send them Hellos. Personal messages only--those you wrote yourself. Make chika. Avoid "forward" messages as they will ruin the sentiment.

If they hit you back, then fantastic! If not, then it's okay. Surely you made them feel special, and there's a good chance you made them smile. It's also a form of thanks and it's enough. It's only up to you if you'll want to rehash those lists in the next 72 hours. Snarl! Ha-ha!

Value your Friends, peeps. They're the hardest to come by.

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And now a song by Dan Seals, which I hope you'd sing to your Friends, not out of romance, lust, dumb colegiala-ness, financial crises or all of those, but simply because You. Mean. It.

One Friend

I always thought you were the best
I guess I always will.
I always felt that we were blessed,
And I feel that way, still.
Sometimes we took the hard road,
But we always saw it through.
If I had only one friend left,
I'd want it to be you.
Sometimes the world was on our side;
Sometimes it wasn't fair.
Sometimes it gave a helping hand;
Sometimes we didn't care.
'Cause when we were together,
It made the dream come true.
If I had only one friend left,
I'd want it to be you.
Someone who understands me,
And knows me inside out.
And helps keep me together,
And believes without a doubt,
That I could move a mountain:
Someone to tell it to.
If I had only one friend left,
I'd want it to be you.

... everybody seems to screw their priorities. Too many protests, too long squabbles and too much politicking only makes a government uglier.

Enough bickering, sirs and ma'ams, the residents of Eastern Samar could really use MORE help right now. Copied this from So far, So Good, as pointed by Ederic:

So, what do you want to with your life right now?

Asked a half-friend I always fail to meet for coffee even if it was my idea. My world halted for a few seconds, not just because he actually managed a full sentence in a human language, but also because nobody had asked me that very question since a heated encounter with a Theology instructor in junior college. I want to resume writing, I answered, “I feel like I'm about to lose it for good and that's before roaches have evaporated from this world—so tragic.” Of course, in reality, and personally, I'd hate it should it ever happen because if it does then what's gonna be left for me, shampooing? So while I keep at my measly-paying job as a marketer and, well, party-goer—comes with the package, and I got no huge complains so far—I began to look for ways on how to rejuvenate my scribe alter ego. That's when I remembered an old friend: my blog.

Xio: Hello, lover.
Blog: Wha-
SLAP!
Xio: What, you wanted me to say, Hello, virgin?!
Blog: WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN!

That could be a selling dialog should Diablo Cody decide to write my reunion story with my 3-year old blog into a movie. Killer teaser. Ellen Page can call me anytime.

So I went back to it and this space was reborn. I changed the layout, put on some widget stuff, linked with other blogs and sites and even gave it a new name inspired by an amazing tale. It's reconciliation con carne and it's a delight: Not only have I found a nice way to exercise my alleged talent with pens and papers—now with QWERTY—but I also get the chance to improve my flailing social skills, at least in cyberspace. And I can't believe how fast time has flown. When I started blogging, it was an almost odd thing to do; not everyone even knew how to spell f-... vl... blog. Now, while I've managed to push my posts from 20-for-2 years to 70-for-3 months, the entire Philippines itself has earned quite a massive space in the blogosphere. Online local forums even report that Filipino bloggers have had collective impact in the phenomenon that is blogging—even implying that the country could soon overtake international groups specializing in blog resources if cyberscribes continue to hone their craft.

And there's more. While journal writing satisfies your personal need to “let it all out”, blogging also offers you a stab at other skills—like, said the author of PinoyBlogero.com, marketing:

“Blog-marketing is an equally important task that aspiring pro-bloggers should look into. It is just one out of the many activities of blogging. Take some time to learn about Internet-marketing and apply it to your blog.”

If you want others to read you, of course. And you do, lest you should have simply collected scratch papers from your office and squiggled to your heart's content.

If you want to be a productive geek, blogging can teach you those HTML, RSS, CSS, what-have-you codes brouhaha. You can design your own site yourself. I haven't bothered diving into the whole nitty gritty, but it's always good to have a few more Internet skills aside from porn surfing and Youtube.

Moneymaking is now at large in blogs too. Services like those of Payperpost and Google AdSense allow bloggers to earn money by allowing ads on their sites. I have yet to receive a check from these, but I am more focused on reaching my immediate target right now: 500 posts by January 2009. I do it by constant ranting and friend-bashing... and of course by typing away boredom, watching movies, appreciating other bloggers' works, going out more often to see what's up in the Metro, hanging out with smart people so I can get infected and catching up on my paperback readings. Much as I'd want to, basking in the brilliance of great literary writers is too big for me at the moment—I prefer blog hopping instead. It's a bit easier, it's more today and it's simply way more fun. You get to read thoughts people your age, people your junior and people your senior whose voices, ideas, angst, humor and even pain are so vast and enjoyable you wouldn't care getting 77 eye defects by the age of 27 because of staring at the monitor “25/7.” You get direct interaction from the authors too and a chance to get comments from total strangers on your own pieces. If the next thing on your list is falling into a coma due to boring routines and expensive frien-ships, give those porn sites a break and try blog hopping every once in a while. It's cheap fun.

First, a delayed sweety-peek:



Then, a full-blast trailer-cum-spoiler:



Every day should be May 30!

Sigh. I give up. FINE! Pester my mailbox all you want! (Why am I laughing?)

From a spam mail from Canadian Pharmacy:

For a man riding alone over the rough forest paths. Pardner
has chosen camp out of earshot, you feel vous soit en aide!
(you swear by the faith which is her own fau't, entirely
she has refused very to cicero his great work de lingua
latino. In might even now repay the industry of some keen
the gaps and down into the trench. If anything, 3, close
together, and which concealed the infernal it is worse,
said sir george, bitterly. Scarce of these ideas to certain
minds is such that no to hastinapura with speed carrying
that wealth great energy, apava, o mightyarmed king, seeing
in ignorance, and which is productive of misery, readeth
this story of the birth of skanda, attaineth to shed tears
in wrath. Addressing king uparichara.

Hastinapura! Apava! UPARICHARA!

Okay let's try this. We're gonna officially start "polls" on this webhole. Each week we'll post a question and we'll see how "nice ones!" people's answers or reactions can get. If there should be any.

I'd like to thank Pinoy Ambisyoso for this. And a person self-labeled MRLONELY, in that spelling.

And our Paostian Poll for the Week is (because we're still so inspired by the lion and his roar):

Nothing like WWW bloopers to perk up your afternoon.

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At the house, in the utensils bucket, there hides a stranger fork. The case has about 36 pieces of identical spoons, forks and teaspoons for daily use, with the knives in a separate case, and among those 36 kitchenware lurks the fork. What's weird and crazy about that piece of steel is that i always pick it up. Always. ALWAYS. All. Ways. Know how you breathe air unless you're a corpse or a zombie or Bob Marley? That's it. Always. Could be my fault, because I and my siblings have been provided another separate glass with four sets of utensils for our exclusive use and I seldom oblige. Because I don't have enough time to be hungry and play Columbus with my spoon. So maybe that Stranger Fork is trying to tell me that I should do what I'm told especially when it comes to things to put in my mouth? At first, like three years ago at first, I get surprised each time, even amused; yet today, more than convincing, it's become extremely annoying. Then Steve Carell tells us in Dan In Real Life: "Plan to be surprised." Fine, but expect me to keep frowning.

NOT about the film and funnyman Steve. While it has a few minutes of near-dullness because of minimal tracks (Halfway through I thought I heard a snake hiss a few steps away in the left aisle, or maybe that's just because there were only 10 of us watching.), the film is still worth second, third, sixth viewings if only for its tug at emotions concerning sibling revelry, second teenage and human irony. But when there was a track, the scenes got even lovelier. I just hope teenagers and everybody else doesn't think much on "Love is not a feeling. It's an ability." because, well, it's just too tedious. And of course, Steve's antics--soo glad Jim Carrey's away. I'd love to see Carell "dance" like that while "blabbering" the way he killed me with laughter in Bruce Almighty. We can all watch it with President Arroyo for good times. I missed Emily Blunt. And Juliette Binoche made me want to check up on Julia Roberts who is currently owning New York.

Then I moved to a screening of My Big Love. All I know is that Sam Milby seemed more comfortable under all those prosthetics. Made me reminisce on my younger years when I was torn momentarily between choco and vanilla. Much as I'd wanted to conjure my inner
patriot and find points to appreciate in the movie, I was stopped by too much make-up. Way too much. If movies are moving pictures, then My Big Love is a series of moving print ads. But since I was blinking at a widescreen, it was a series of moving billboards. Get a new long-haired Barbie doll, take out its head, then place it on a week-old emptied bottle of Redhorse. That's how almost everybody in the film looked. I even thought it was a film on lesbianism since everybody looked so... made up, especially when the prosthetic-less Sam was on-scene. But that's just me and my oily face. For that they should've changed its title to "My Big Powder". Or "My Big Foundation". Or "My Big Blow-Dried Hair". Cute music theme, though. Oh and let me know when rumors of Kristine Hermosa finally retiring start spreading. Some applause might be in order.