The guy’s rules

Got this one from my mail. How true! i'll come up with my own take on this next time…

Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules! Please note.. these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!

1. Men are NOT mind readers.

1. Learn to work the toilet seat.You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down.We need it up, you need it down.You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

1. Sunday sports. It's like the full moon or the changing of the tides. Let it be.

1. Shopping is NOT a sport. And no, we are never going to think of it that way.

1. Crying is blackmail.

1. Ask for what you want. Let us be clear on this one: Subtle hints do not work! Strong hints do not work! Obvious hints do not work! Just say it!

1. Yes and No are perfectly acceptable answers to almost every question.

1. Come to us with a problem only if you want help solving it. That's what we do. Sympathy is what your girlfriends are for.

1. A headache that lasts for 17 months is a Problem. See a doctor.

1. Anything we said 6 months ago is inadmissible in an argument. In fact, all comments become null and void after 7 Days.

1. If you won't dress like the Victoria's Secret girls, don't Expect us to act like soap opera guys.

1. If you think you're fat, you probably are.Don't ask us.

1. If something we said can be interpreted two ways and one of the ways makes you sad or angry, we meant the other one

1. You can either ask us to do something Or tell us how you want it done. Not both. If you already know best how to do it, just do it yourself.

1. Whenever possible, Please say whatever you have to say during commercials.

1. Christopher Columbus did NOT need directions and neither do we.

1. ALL men see in only 16 colors, like Windows default settings. Peach, for example, is a fruit, not A color. Pumpkin is also a fruit. We have no idea what mauve is.

1. If it itches, it will be scratched. We do that.

1. If we ask what is wrong and you say "nothing," We will act like nothing's wrong. We know you are lying, but it is just not worth the hassle.

1. If you ask a question you don't want an answer to, Expect an answer you don't want to hear.

1. When we have to go somewhere, absolutely anything you wear is fine.Really.

1. Don't ask us what we're thinking about unless you are prepared to discuss such topics as baseball, the shotgun formation, or basketball.

1. You have enough clothes.

1. You have too many shoes.

1. I am in shape. Round IS a shape!

1. Thank you for reading this. Yes, I know, I have to sleep on the couch tonight;

But did you know men really don't mind that? It's like camping.

Seeming calm

Seeming calm
Passed over
The half-closed lids
Of dreamers.

Spread-eagled,
Naked to the warm earth,
The sun singed
All resolve and
Struggles,
They lay content.
The wind carried
Their laughter and screams,
Buffered by the waves’ own,
To ocean depths,

To the memories of past oceans,
To the stories of past generations,
To the laughter and tears
Of mothers, brothers, grandfathers,
Farmers, seafarers, gulls,
Herons, and seabirds,

To the laughter and tears
Of would-be dreamers.

Gloria in excelsis

“The Roots of Violence: Wealth without work, Pleasure without conscience, Knowledge without character, Commerce without morality, Science without humanity, Worship without sacrifice, Politics without principles,” — Mahatma Gandhi

Saw on TV our so-called president wearing the famous yellow shirt with the mug of Ninoy Aquino on the front during the commemoration of his death anniversary and I almost gagged.

How dare she gatecrash a memory – no, a symbol of idealism, freedom, and human rights — which she successfully debased in her short term. Critics even placed her above Marcos in her wanton disregard of human lives as in the case of killings of activists and journalists done in broad daylight. How dare she invoke what Ninoy stood for!

Cory, knowing that the commemoration was meant to be a grand show for good PR was a, well, no show.

During the ceremony, Gloria named former Supreme Court associate justice Jose Melo to head the new commission supposedly to probe the almost daily killings, which she condemned in the “strongest terms,” while she called on the public for support. The commission was created a few days after Gloria gave Task Force Usig an ultimatum to solve 10 cases in 10 weeks.

Earlier, Gloria called on the witnesses to come out and pinpoint the killers; as if it’s the fault of the witnesses why not a single suspect has been jailed. Now, we know where (in)Justice Sec. Raul Gonzales got his astute talent of concocting ready-made excuses for ineptitude. His boss just showed it right there.

Besides, the government has not shown in the past its interest in protecting whistleblowers. There was Gen. Francisco Gudani, along with his officer Col. Alexander Balutan, who was court martialed for testifying before the Senate on what they knew about election rigging involving the president’s husband.

Then there’s EO 464 which prohibits executive officials from testifying before Senate with Malacanang’s say-so; the CPR to prevent protesters from massing up; the overthrow of the impeachment bid even before the evidence could be examined – all pointing to the actions of the guilty person.

Of course, I was no longer surprised seeing Gloria there. She must have really thought that it’s her duty to be present during the commemoration. If she praised Gen. Jovito Palparan for his “heroic” efforts in fighting the enemy yesterday like what she did in her state of the nation address, I would also expect it. Her capacity to lie to herself is boundless.

Gloria already usurped the presidency, and yesterday she took over a widow’s memory, too. No, Gloria does not surprise me anymore. It’s us I’m disappointed with. How far could we go allowing somebody rape our morals, prostitute our minds, and assault our senses with her fake smiles?

Gloria’s greatest crime is not stealing the presidency (not once, but twice!); her greatest sin is murdering the Filipino’s hope.

Ninoy need not worry whether or not the Filipino is worth dying for:

We are already dead.

Changes

disclaimer: published on August 17, 2006

Saw Chik2x last night and as is our wont (a tradition almost) when we have no money, we decided to splurge.

And so we hied off to Kaen Dawet along Roxas Avenue to eat and just chill out. I hated the crowd — the cacophony of voices, of bottles being served, of the shrilling DJ on the background, of shuffled feet, cellphones beeping — all gave me an earsplitting headache.

The thing is, I used to find the chaos of the crowd comforting, seeking tranquility in the anonimity it provides. I was drawn to them like a moth to a flame.

It doesn't really matter where I was. Mostly I and some other guys found ourselves in some dingy honky tonk, beer in our hands that were rendered blue or red (depending on where you sit) by the flourescent lights wrapped in cheap colored water cellophane.

Or sometimes, we enter strip clubs laughing our asses off over some antics of the girls onstage that are anything but erotic. So we just nurse our beers, munch on peanuts, and focus on the girls beside us.

To keep the girls that we "table" from clapping for a ladies drink (which, by the way cost over a P100) every ten seconds, Tonix and I wooed two girls. Mine was married (or so she said and you don't lie about a thing like that in the presence of your customer). It didn't matter, at least the claps now come at 20-second intervals.
We also frequent posh disco houses where dancing entailed standing on one place bobbing your head for lack of space.

I couldn't help but wax nostalgic about the old Mad Max along Legaspi Street. That was a riot in a literal sense of the word. The crowd was rowdy, the entrance was cheap, and a fight almost always break out. PARTEEYY!!

It didn't even matter that I couldn't hold my drink. Every so often I passed out or puke whatever I had for that week. I'd sleep, somebody wakes me up and hands me a glass of booze, naturally I accept it and drink some more; and naturally puke some more (there goes my intestine, my gall bladder and liver).

Free band performances were heavenly. Slamming, thumping, shouting, and get smashed afterwards. Of course, this was the era of grunge, where Nirvana, Radiohead, R.E.M and Pearl Jam reign like gods. ROCK ON!!!

I used to be that guy who shouted catcalls at every lousy joke the DJ made, my stupidity amplified by the alcohol in my veins; the one who took on every dare his friends issued; the jerk who couldn't understand the concept "no means no." I was boisterous, irascible, and generally obtuse. I've mellowed since then.

Last night, for example, I couldn't wait to get out of there and just sit somewhere quiet to talk, and instead of beer, it's my girl's hands I'm clutching.

Does that speak of my maturity? No, more like I'm moribund.

Release me

Release me of your love.
It has ceased to be my freedom.
It has now become a cold, damp prison
With a small windowsill,
Providing a peek of the
Endless fields outside
Where I used to run unbound.

Release me of your love.
Your smile now begets intense grief.
Tugging at the part of my heart
Where before the corners of your mouth
Reign and control like the gods.

I look myself through your eyes
And I could no longer see
That brawny and virile man
Who tamed Titans
And broke hurricanes
With his strength.

You’ve reduced me
To ordinariness.

The golden sword I used to yield
And swing with reckless abandon
Is now just a dull blade.
And my shield, which shone like
A thousand suns,
Has now blunted.

Release me of your love.
Leave me to my mortality
Fly away…

Fly away and
Don’t look back.

Conceal your eyes from me
So I won’t glimpse that
Brawny and virile man
Who tamed Titans
And broke hurricanes
With his strength.

The Buzz

Teachers and administrators of the University of Southeastern Philippines spitting mad against this popular (or so he thinks) ABS-CBN personality over the comments he made during his radio program.

They supposedly took exception when the ABS-CBN personality, who also anchors an afternoon show on TV, said on air that USEP administrators are "bugo" (stupid) because the investigation into the unfortunate death of Cheryl Sarate had dragged on.

Gripped with apoplexy, One teacher was heard to have commented: "Bugo pud diay siya. Mura man pud siya dili gikan sa USP. Dire baya siya nag high-school."

Hahahahaha!

The Movie

I admit the movie was bad,
And the audio was even worse.
But they’re not the reasons I went out.
Even though I couldn’t sleep
From the icy breath

Of the air conditioner
Nipping at
my tendons.

I would have endured that.

But when I hear your shallow
Breath beside me and feel
You cringe when my fingertips
Graze your cold skin
And lean away
From me…

I had to go.
I had to breathe.

Your fear pains me so.

Priceless

Me and my girl were eating at the Krua Thai along Torres St. Right in front of us are a group of Americans and Koreans seated at different tables. All the time, I try to look cool like I eat opulence for breakfast and use luxury to wipe my ass every time I crap.

Though I must admit I got rattled off when I read the menu.

Let me put this in a proper context. I only have P22 on my pockets, my girl had even less than me. We just thought of splurging that night precisely because we had no money. No need for money, we thought, we got Visa!

Our Visa ad would go this way:

1. Green shirt: P30 (from ukay-ukay)
2. blue pants: P800
3. accessories: P67
The look on our faces when reading the menu? Priceless!

Anyway, after finishing up all our food (our bill amounted to nearly P500). The waiter came around and asked my girl, in English, no less:

“Ma’am, are you done?”

I froze. Tucked in my smile and waited. Rarely do you get those moments when you could shot back a witty reply. You’ve seen the funny movies. You play the conversations over and over in your head, hoping that one day you get to use them in real life.
To my mind, there are several answers to this question:

1. “No, I’m not done. I’m (state your name)”
2. “No, I’m not done, but I have a brother by that name.”
3. “Yes, I have a man’s name. And yours?”

There are also several variations to these but they all go with the same theme.
And so there I was, holding my spoon in mid-air. I waited for her answer because basically we share the same sense of humor (you know, the one when nobody else gets it) so I knew it would be good.

She looked at the waiter askance, smiled her sweet smile, and replied:

“Yes.”

The waiter took her plate and that was it. There goes the moment.
I, for one, blame it on the menu. Priceless!

Music

Back in college, in between bouts of clear-headedness and downright being wasted, i came across this masterpiece by Gary Provost's in his 1985 book "100 ways to improve your writing." I love how it teaches writers the importance of varying your paragraph length of your articles, not just to explain, narrate, or to investigate, but also to create music.

This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It's like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety.

Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length.

And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals — sounds that say listen to this, it is important.

So write with a combination of short, medium, and long sentences. Create a sound that pleases the reader's ear. Don't just write words.

Write music.

Flipping the bird

A short history of the longest finger

Giving someone "the finger" is one of the basest violations in modern culture, but its origins date back over 2500 years. The first written record of the insult occurred in ancient Greece, where the playwright Aristophanes (the Adam Sandler of his day) made a crude joke mixing up the middle finger and the penis. Even back then, the bird was considered an aggressive, phallic put-down.

It has been argued by anthropologists that the finger is a a variant of a classic "phallic aggressive" gesture used by primates. By jabbing a threatening phallus at your enemy like a wild animal, you aren't just belittling him, but also making him your sexual inferior. Instead of using a real penis, civilized Janes and Platos called upon the substitute wieners within their own hands to mock, threaten, and humiliate opponents.

And boy, did it. When the Romans imported the art, music, and culture of the Greeks, the finger came along, too. Roman Emperor Caligula, a pioneer in perversity, frequently shocked his citizens by forcing them to kiss his middle finger instead of his hand. One of his subjects, Cassius, who Caligula often taunted as being too effeminate, finally had enough humiliation and assassinated him. Clearly, the bird was not to be taken lightly.

During the Middle Ages, the finger went underground. It was still known, but the Catholic Church frowned upon its use, as the middle finger was supposed to be holy in the Mass. The unholy insult lurked deep within the hearts of filthy- minded folks everywhere, hiding from sight until the 19th century when it began to crop up again thanks to a new invention -photography.

for a full version of the history click here
http://www.ooze.com/finger/html/history.html

F#@K IT!

loved this pun, thought i'd share it…

"Uncle Jim," by Peter Meinke:

What the children remember about Uncle Jim
is that on the train to Reno to get divorced
so he could marry again
he met another woman and woke up in California.
It took him seven years to untangle that dream
but a man who could sing like Uncle Jim
was bound to get in scrapes now and then:
he expected it and we expected it.

Mother said, It's because he was the middle child,
And Father said, Yeah, where there's trouble
Jim's in the middle.

When he lost his voice he lost all of it
To the surgeon's knife and refused the voice box
They wanted to insert. In fact he refused
Almost everything. Look, they said,
It's up to you. How many years
Do you want to live? And Uncle Jim
Held up one finger.

The middle one.

Mnemonics

A funny thing happened today. I was on the way to the office when somebody tapped my shoulder from behind and called my name. I glanced back and turned out it was an old flame from way back. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember her name.
I have a faint memory of her face and her eyes. She looked plumpier. But i could not really trust my memory to say that she gained weight. Even her smell is not familiar (A new perfume, maybe)? Memory is a funny thing. You think you could never forget a person but each piece of her slowly fades away with time. You forget how her laughter sounded like, how she dressed. Her smile.

Her smell that clung heavily to your clothes lightens and evaporates, but the memory is still there, however faint. It's almost like the smell of durian, lingering in the air long after the solids are thrown away; or the smell of sweaty feet in the room.

I thought we had something then but now I couldn’t even remember her name.

Our conversation went like this:

Her: So, musta na?

Me: Okay lang, kaw?

Her: Okay lang din. Saan ka na ngayon?

Me: Wala, tambay tambay lang.

Her: Atik ka man oi. Ingon ni Michael, nagtrabaho ka daw sa ______?

Me: Ah, oo. Sometimes.

Awkward silence. She looked away. I looked at her.

Me: So, asa ka karun?

Her: (smiling) wala, magpatahi uniform diha sa ____ (points to a boutique nearby).

Me: ah ok. asa diay ka work?

Her: Sa ______. Isa sa mga sales agents didto.

Me: ah ok.

Her: Asawa ka naman daw?

Me: Tsismis lang na. hehehe. Kaw, minyo ka na?

Her: Wala pa pud. Wa pa nakita. Basi ginahulat ko nimo? (laughs)

Me: Mao. Hehehe

Another silence. Longer this time. I took the chance to try to remember her name and failed.

Me: So, adto nako. Balik pa ko work.

Her: Sige. Ako pud, magpatahi pa pud ko uniform. Naa ka number?

Me: Naa.

Her: Hatagi ko beh. Save nako.

Me: Sige. Unsa man imo number kay save nako tapos miscol taka later.

Her: Ok. (gives her number) Tawagi ko ha or text?

Me: Ok

Her: Promise ha? Bantay ka lang, atikon bya ka.

Me: Nanira pa jud. Lagi. Text taka.

I didn’t. It would be pointless.

The cat in the beach (and it ain’t cute, either)

Speaking of Tawi-tawi… I think the beaches there are comparable to the best in the world. With powdery white sand that stretches on end, clear turquoise water, and the wind swinging freely. There are no resorts there, maybe because of its image as the preferred vacation spot for the Abu Sayyaf group or its proximity to Sulu, another hotbed for skirmishes, which isn't true of course, but that's another story.

The one good thing about that is you have the beach to yourself. And so, Susan (my companion for the project) and I vowed to wake up early for a swim.

Daybreak came.

The sun started to rise behind the open sea, tinting the coastline with a carroty blush. I started to strip while Susan was busy capturing the moment with her digital camera.

Off to my peripheral vision, I saw an old woman draped in malong emerge from one of the many houses lining the shore. We watched her languidly walked towards the shore, each step purposeful, catlike almost. She stopped at the wet mark where the waves left an imprint in the sand. She burrowed the sand with her bare hands. We continued watching her, mesmerized.

Then, she unloosened the malong draped on her waist, faced the ocean, and sat on the tunnel she just made. That’s when we realized that she was relieving herself using the malong as cover. The term catlike suddenly took a whole different meaning.

We never got to swim, that just killed it off for us right there.

Theory of relativity

Digging into my pockets yesterday, I realized I only have P85.00 and change left. How much P85.00 would buy?

I remember when I was in Tawi-tawi island, writing about one of the projects of a company known for promoting corporate social responsibility.

We arrived there about 2:00 p.m. and so we went off to the market for our dinner that night. Their public market was anything but orderly. The sheer volume of the crowd made it almost necessary to walk shoulder to shoulder with a stranger. To my left was an old woman, a turban on her head and a cigar on her mouth, almost a caricature of herself.

The smoke from her cigar burned my nostrils and I couldn’t look away because the guy to my right looked like he could skin me alive without breaking a sweat.

There we were, in single file. My hands on the shoulders of the local contact in front of me, my companion’s hands were on my shoulders. Like three-year olds, treading an imaginary line. To this day, I couldn’t remember how we made it out of there with vegetables, imbao (shellfish), and kuracha (sea centipede) and fresh isda sa bato in hand.

Our expenses for the feast? A mere P85.00 and change.

Stumping Ground

Words intimidate me. That may seem paradoxical since I write for a living but it’s true –words intimidate me.

Consider, for example, this seven-syllable word craspedomorphology: defined as a branch of photography, which deals with the sharpness of images, clarity of detail and the resolving power of camera lenses.

If you don’t consult the dictionary and rely only on the phonetics, it would evoke a different meaning. If I had to guess, based on the sound of the word and by literally considering each syllable, I would craft a totally different definition. And it has nothing to do with photography. I would come up something like: cras = uncouth; pedo = child; morph = change; and ology = study of. So my own definition would be: the study of changing an uncouth child.

I told you it has nothing to do with photography.

Fortunately or unfortunately, much as I am threatened with them, I’m also enamored with words. The way letters make love to form syllables and syllables merge to form words, words turn to sentences, and on it goes.

I imagine I must have slobbered graffiti on my mother’s thigh the day I got out just to have the pleasure of admiring what I just scrawled. Doctors must have been surprised to find the bloodied words “I was here” on the side of my mother’s thigh running through her leg.

My love affair with graffiti continued to high school, with a trusty ballpen, or if I’m lucky, pentel pen in hand. I’d scrawl anywhere, from wet cement (your name and the date below just to be sure the owner remembers the day you vandalized his pavement), the comfort room (girls or boys), my bedroom, school, lampposts, walls. A nail cutter also comes in handy when you have to carve your name on the teacher’s desk or your own chair. It was only later I learned that carving your real name would have dire consequences. ah, the lessons of youth!

I was lucky to have been surrounded by books. From those illustrated Jesus books peddled by Christian bookstores to Disney‘s Wonderful World of Knowledge, to Winnie the Pooh classics, Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tales; and even our local askal Tagpi with the immortal phrase “run Tagpi, run!” (see, it’s not Forrest Gump who ran first).

Over the years, I graduated to books without illustrations. I used to raid the room of my aunt. There’s no rhythm and rhyme to her bookshelf. Side by side with management and economics books, there are also rows and rows of mills and boons, silhouettes, and other romance novels.

Naturally, between economics and a book with a cover where the hero, naked from the waist up, scoops up the girl with prominent breasts, her blouse off-kilted, waiting for that eternal kiss, I chose the latter.

There are also surprises in reading these romance novels for a young kid with growing loins. In between pages, there’s sure to be two to three pages of hot, searing, and passionate, well, lovemaking.

Then I was introduced to Harold Robbins, WHAM! It was not only my impressionable young mind that exploded (and exploded, hehehe)… I didn’t know words could do that to your loins. Good thing, my aunt only had two titles of Harold Robbins in her shelf but I devoured them both. She must have found out about my “growing” interest from the dog-eared pages where the steamy scenes were for one day, the books were just gone.

It was books that instinctively taught me sentence construction, idioms, and creating images through words, for I never did memorize the parts of the speech even if my ass depended on it. And in some cases, it did. When I was spanked on the butt for failing the English subject.

Mostly, when I write I played by ear. If it sounded awkward, it must be grammatically wrong. You could hear purists on the background screaming, “Your rules suck!” what can I say? I’ve got years of experience sucking.

If words intimidate me, the alternative downright terrifies me. Just how do you say hello to a blank space?

Finally

Finally, im blogging.

For cowboys, that's all it takes to gain self-respect.