That Dratted Potato Song (2)

My apologies to the Japanese.

Looking back as I was assaulted by images of singing, dancing potatoes and potato products, I remember exactly why I stopped watching Japanese channels on local cable six or seven years ago.

The Japanese have a... preoccupation with all things cute. The, uh, mania is so pervasive and so cloying and over-the-top that it borders on the pathological. Consider the pleasing (yet disturbing) preoccupation with youth, short skirts and sailor suits. Consider too that until Utada Hikaru came along and broke the mold in a big way, women singers tended to strangle themselves trying to turn their make their voices child-like. (This is not to say that there weren't singers with brassy or smoky voices, but that preoccupation with wanting to be cute often kept those singers from well-deserved audiences and accolades.) Too, the Japanese tended to burn through their pop idols quickly, frequently discarding yesterday's idol for the new face and voice ingenue.

I have visions of ex idols scrabbling for scraps of fame, vainly trying to hold on to their youthful good looks and high-pitched voicesagainst the inexorable march of time. Brrr.

Thankfully the women do tend to get over it (as evidenced by the very competent female staff at the Jap Language school I study in). Granted also that I was watching a kiddie show when my senses were assaulted by the potato song. But the lady host's brand of cuteness -- even the male hosts were trying to speak in piping tones when they sure as hell didn't have to-- have the words fake and soon-to-be-desperate written all over it.

I got sick of all the blasted sugar-substitute cuteness six or seven years ago and I'm still sick of all the blasted sugar-substitute cuteness now.

I'm all for cuteness when it comes naturally. And one doesn't have to speak in piping fake-kiddie tones to be adorable. But there comes a time when you have to relegate oozing cuteness to someone else-- preferably someone under 18. Your own "cuteness" -- a function of your innate and developed beauty will come out of its own accord without being forced. It will likely be treasured all the more.

That Dratted Potato Song

Some time before my Nihongo Basic 3 classes ended, the tech boys at the Jap language school had set up a teevee at the reception desk. It was tuned perpetually to NHK, as if some Japanimation fanboy set the channel with the only working remote and proceeded to break it.

I decided to take advantage of the situation and spend my idle time watching and listening to the idiot box to better pick up Japanese. It was, in theory, a good plan with a good fringe benefit: I got to see what Japan had to offer the visual connoisseur in the art of, ah, female appreciation.

It was going well, too. Until--I was watching a kiddie show --the girl host I was appreciating opened her mouth and proceeded to sing about the virtue of potatoes. The song wasn't bad; it was written and arranged well, in fact. But it was insidious. It snared you with its catchy tune and insinuated itself between the folds of your brain the way the grease from a bag of french fries oozes permanently into cheap paper plates.

Today, weeks removed from the original airing, I'm cursed with instant, insistent, and near-permanent recall. Mention "potatoes" and the song plays in my head again and again and again and again and...

(Jap) Words for the Week

Nihongo （日本語）n. the Japanese Language. Take a country, almost any country, and insert the suffix "go" （語）and you basically have the name of that country's language in Japanese. Of course, the Japanese have their own names for select countries, but let's not "go" there yet.

Eigo （英語）n. English (the language)

Firipingo （フィリピン語）n. Filipino (the language).

jagaimo （じゃがいも）n. potato

Bone tired. Not dead tired; not yet.

I've had to move furniture around the house because I simply couldn't work there properly. No doubt, I'm bound to ruffle some feathers-- always the trouble when you're living with the folks-- but this is going to be worth it. My home workspace actually looks better and I can literally and figuratively breathe with all the space I've managed to free up.

I'm waiting for one of the foreign partners today. He'll be arriving sometime after lunch, (which means that could be any time between 12:01 and 4:00 pm.). I won't have to talk to him alone, though, as er, mom's original foreign partner has decied he'll show up and fill my language gaps. Some translator I'm turning out to be...

In preparation for their arrival, I've decided to clean up a bit. There were some shortcuts to some pc games that I've had to bury. I'm also throwing out the old bulletin board (paper on paper, stuck on the wall) and slap on a decent-looking felt surface over some decent board which I will then slap on the wall, with tape and some tacks.

Among other things.

Something good will come out of this. It must.

Nearly Got Something Cut Off Today

11:30 am, Convergys, Makati City

Thank God the knife was dull and made of wood. Thank God the guy with the wooden knife pointed at my groin was Sifu Russel. Thank God this was just a martial arts demo.

The audience had gasped, sensing that this wasn't your standard demo drill. And in spite of my own two seconds of helpless panic-- I totally did not expect him to scoop under my leg and lock me down, groin exposed to a knife-- I loved it.

Half the fun of a martial arts demo is watching the light bulbs flash over the audience's heads, regardless of who was playing the martial arts hero or the goon who was going to be very sorry he messed with the wrong guy.

Doing "It" with Friends

In a perfect world, we'd all be friends; we'd all be living together; working together like stepford neighbors high on a totally harmless form of hash. But the world is not perfect; and sad to say many of us will probably never ever get along. It's God's game of craps-- all right, baccarat-- that brings disparate people together. And it's only God, and your neighborhood shrink, who can predict how you'll all turn out.

A decade or so ago some common friends --a group of twelve or so uniquely talented individuals-- decided to pool their artistic strengths together and make a name for themselves as a Power in the commissioned art business. For a few short months they established Camelot. They were an art commune/tradesmen's guild/peripatetic philosophical society all rolled into one package way cool for its time and place.

"But why," you ask, "have I not heard of them?"

Like Camelot, the Power imploded, taking with it carefully nurtured friendships that should have been immune to poverty amid plenty and well-meaning neglect. The founders of that new Camelot were young and naiive, professing faith in contracts sealed with a smile and a handshake. Naturally, they could not have succeeded financially.

Camelot's knights broke under pressure from their angry parents, who railed against the injustices done by friends to friends. They broke under the pressure of academics-- which they had neglected on the off-chance that their mutual quest would bear lucrative fruit. They broke under the pressure of their own infighting as-- egged on by parents, failure, poverty and broken promises-- friend turned against friend. Heroically, they tried to regroup and recoup their losses but with Camelot's knights leaving the order one by one, there was nothing they could do to stop the end from happening.

When the dust settled, there were no more knights. Just tired souls wary of taking risks and trusting people.

Soredewa, kyameroto no menbaa wa iro iro tokoro ni itte, oboenai kuni ni oboenai michi wo aruita.

What's the moral lesson here? Aside from "always have an ironclad contract" it's never go into business with friends.

It's hard custom-building an English test for ex-college students whose high school and college English teachers deserve to be shot.

The students already know some of the stuff you're talking about, so they get bored easily with tests that involve the very basics of the language. Trouble is, that's where they may need fine tuning. Too, as a teacher you need to be seven steps ahead of your study group. You've got to be able to anticipate every question they'll likely throw your way.

Now, imagine that you have to brush up on your English simultaneously with a foreign language that:

1. follows a basic sentence pattern that's not normally used in English;
2. makes use of "post"-positions, (instead of prepositions) and particles (instead of articles) ;
3. conjugates past tense verbs as if they were adjectives;
4. treats the conjugation of present- and future tense verbs in practically the same way

I need a tylenol.

Momma's Boy

Yelled at my mom again like a spoiled brat. It's bad, shameful even, as it was in the workplace that this happened. It's just that she can say the most condescending, patronizing things if she doesn't get what she wants. Which is why I didn't want her for a boss in the first place. It doesn't help that I'm a guy who doesn't want to do something I've already done. I'm not a miracle worker.

But I was wrong to yell. And I'm very, very sorry.

An Old Forgotten Post

Dex, Unplugged

It’s like old times. People have been trying to reach me, and as usual, I have been nigh-impossible to find. There isn’t too much backlash, because everyone knows by now that I’ve “donated” my cell phone, laptop and CD burner to “the needy.”

I kind of like being unplugged and hard to find.

Reasons?

It is good to have someone sweat a little while looking for me every now and then. It strokes the ego; makes me feel wanted. I tend to get lost in the estimation of my friends amidst the routines and concerns of their existences.

I know, it’s shallow, but allow a thirty-year-old his little foibles.

Too, people are usually not looking for the simple pleasure of my company. While I’m almost always available to lend a helping hand, the lending itself is almost always inconvenient. I get in trouble with my job, my family, my girlfriend— even as I race off on my invisible steed to right the very visible wrongs the world has –rightly or no— inflicted on my friends.

There are days when I almost no longer care that a friend’s love life is being flushed down the toilet, or that his parents are being anal and controlling. This kind of counseling I’ve been doing since college and I have long since recognized a need for a welcome respite. “Physician, heal thyself!” has often silently been thrown in my face. It’s about time I took that advice.

Disclaimer: I’ve been known to look people up to pester them for favors. But I’ve been trying my best to cut down on asking for them. Sometimes, I no longer bother. My friends are living their own lives, battling their own ogres and scaling their own prince/ss towers. The very act of taking up their time only adds unnecessary weight to their current burdens.

Being unconnected to the outside world allows me to focus on the stuff I’d normally be neglecting. When was the last time I’d been cozy with Honey? Yes, you get a gold star— just in the last couple of days when absolutely no one could reach me via cell phone, email or that dratted Yahoo Messenger.

Still, I don’t relish being unplugged for longer than a glorious month of peace, quiet and uninterrupted PC gaming. I will soon enough have to discharge my obligations to my colleagues and friends—who will no doubt continually wonder where I am or what I am about.

Issoku Kutsushita wa Issoku Ja Nai

This is Life as a Suit in a Third World Country.

I live in a place where my socks are almost always mismatched; where the stuff in your cabinet isn't yours because someone else higher up on the food chain has decided that you don't need the extra space; where two consenting adults can't live together without wearing the scarlet letter unless they grease enough palms-- money is apparently better than Tide at getting rid of dirt.

Down here-- the operative word is Purgatory-- equipment always breaks down because people think they can plug just one more appliance into a wall socket already groaning under the demands of an overloaded electrical system. They don't know the damage they're causing and they sure as hell don't give half a damn until said appliance breaks down or the fuses blow up. I'm the guy who has to fix the mess they made over my strenuous but stifled objections and they have the gall to ask me why I didn't give them a lesson in the care of electrical systems.

When anyone here shows a modicum of talent or initiative, he is run ragged by people who expect him to know everything and solve their problems NOW, never mind that he has his own problems to fix and his own life to lead. If he hasn't already lost half his native energy to entropy, he will the be forced to break the Third Law of Thermodynamics (a first in Physics!), as critics and vultures and social vampires will inevitably reduce him to a psychic state of Absolute Zero. After which he either expires or becomes another member of the soulless working dead who haunt the private workplace, the government office and pretty much every place where humanity gets a foothold.

In the place where I live, 1+1 is always 3 or any other number someone higher on the food chain wants it to be, damn the real number system, the laws of motion and damn the torpedoes... which, by the way, whoopsie, I will have to take for the team.

I don't want to live like this. I want a clean pair of matching socks.

Channeling Ashton Kutcher

If I told you I'm in love with a fifty year old woman, you'd probably think that I just about chase anything wearing a skirt. Well, you could say that with some accuracy about some of the famous roles Bill Shatner (King of Ham) and Eddie Garcia (King of Local Cinema Smarm) have portrayed over their long showbiz careers.

Attention Lawyers: I am not in love with my Japanese Japanese language teacher. Only with the way she writes. Hers is a special magic that makes itself known when she holds the brush. She takes a mental deep breath and plunges into the task of traditional Sino-Nipponese calligraphy, and those characters that thwart our inexperienced hands come to dynamic, sinuous, structured life. When she's done with a character, everyone wants to hang it on some wall somewhere, a testament to a teacher's skill-- and if you looked for the right clues, her inner life.

I'm the best Kanji guy my class has. I keep telling Arjayne-chan it's only because I've been around longer, and poked my nose into affairs she and our classmates haven't. Apparently, I haven't been poking hard enough. My writing struggles under the weight of my brush and my force of will. My own mental deep breath is often literal and quite ragged. My hands shake. I still have trouble taming those vertical strokes.

I'll get to where Katayama-Sensei is. I must.

Pink News (Friday)

Thom Filicia and Kyan Douglas, two fifths of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy's Fab Five, have landed on our shores. Each is due to speak at some Ayala land-sponsored engagement today. A good thing. I'm agreeing with PDI columnist Rina Jimenez David when she says that the efforts of the Fab Five have given gays a fighting chance in a less than friendly world. Gay guys get such a bad rap in this country.

I'm not going to join my countrymen in lumping gay guys exclusively in the category of "sexual predators given to pederasty." That category isn't exclusive: a number of straight guys also indulge in sexual predation and prefer hebephilial relationships. I can state categorically that none of my gay friends indulge in that kind of behavior. I can point to a good number of them who put straight guys to shame in matters like loyalty to their partners, devotion to their work and their usually anti-gay families, their incomes. If what defines a man are his word, his ability to protect and provide for himself and the people he loves, then I am a lot less of a man than they are.

More (Japanese) Words for the Week

Kanji n. Chinese characters adapted for use in Japanese writing

denwabangou n. phone number (et. from denwa, telephone + ban, number)

Asahiko n. "Child of the Morning Sun" (et. usually a given name; from asa, morning + hi, sun + ko child)

Some of you out there will already be aware that I am taking Japanese language classes. They've gotten a damn sight harder since I set foot in my Basic Two class. I used to be at the top of my Basic One class because I was the only guy in the room who had the time to really study, and even then I'd had prior exposure to the language thanks to nth generation pirated subtitled anime. I've fallen low since then, partly because I haven't had the time or the energy to study properly. And it's a damn shame; at least no one has really dethroned me as my class's resident Kanji scribe. It's to be expected too, I guess, because my Basic Two class is composed of the topnotchers from the other Basic One classes.

Arjayne-chan has consistently topped the exams. Running a close second is Lenin-san, a Caviteño with a Visayan accent who I've come to grudgingly respect: you can't question this guy's initiative and his drive. With resident topnotcher Arnold-san (also from Cavite) taken out of the running by family and work concerns, Lenin would top the class if he wasn't already saddled with his job and his accent. Me, I'm in a race to keep my head over perilous waters along with everyone else. These are times I wish I hadn't left my small pond for the minor lake. When I feel strung out, spread like too little butter on too much bread, I have to remind myself that I'm only in competition with me.

Asahiko-chan has by this time taken her flight to Japan with her dad and the Card Captor Sakura drawings she commissioned (for free), and maybe my Kanji workbook and a month's worth of my Kanji assignments for Jap class (she'll need it). I wish her all the best. Let me state that I am, yes, concerned about how she'll adjust to life in Japan. My teacher says kids are bullied there, especially if they can't speak the language.

Been busy. We just wrapped up the Cultural Activity ritual my Jap school puts together for the purposes of handing out certificates and faculty-student bonding. I am dog tired and my eyes hurt.

The shocker is that the performances I and my classmates gave were covered by one of the local channels. (They'd done that before at the last Cultural Activity but there seemed to be no reason for a repeat covereage. ) I basically sang, danced and embarrassed myself on national tv.

We were trying to get Asahiko-chan (the girl is 11, talented but shy) to dance a little for her song number. So we did all sorts of funny dances while she sang to take her mind off the pressure of an avidly expectant audience. The camera just had to swing my way just when a friend and I were channeling Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music. Asa-chan smiled and danced a bit. She didn't win the singing contest though (no good choreography). But, I 'm grateful for small victories.

I had found out a week ago that my teacher wasn't kidding when he said I should accompany Maria-san's singing with a Tai Chi interpretative dance. So I was more or less ready when I did. I didn't fudge the forms too much... I hope. I am almost afraid of watching the video.

Finally, I sang myself. Not too badly, given the praise I got from many in the audience. Normally reticent Japanese faculty and staff actually stopped to say something good about my performance. I'm either that good or they're THAT polite.

Maybe I shoulda been an entertainer.

Lurching Drunkenly Towards Bethlehem

Mom's business partner shows up after a two-month sojourn in his home country. He carries with him a pretty acetate portfolio containing the company's profile data and I am... speechless.

I wish I could say it was because the profile and ad inserts were so good they blew me away. They aren't. Given access to more money than Mom will want to release for design collaterals, any of our local cut-rate ad and design guys could do them better. My brief stints freelancing for Hinge and with Bald Man Media have made print layout flaws and no-nos easier for me to spot, and I have to be grateful to Danice, Russel and DarDar for that (even if I'll probably never work with them again thanks to the comlications arising from my familial duties).

I was speechless because I was shocked at my own inability to think outside the box concerning the same protfolio, which I was tasked in part to design. I could have done the same thing better on a really bad day. I'm asking myself just what the hell happened and the answers are coming up as I type.

1. In the first place, I didn't want to do it. (My problem: I'm a know-it-all maverick) I viewed the whole project as an onerous half-baked task handed down to me by a many-headed boss whose heads kept giving me conflicting instructions through a tactless intermediary because they couldn't agree on exactly what they wanted. (Company's problem: Vision and Goals.)

2. It was bad enough that the company bigwigs couldn't pinpoint exactly what they wanted. But that damned language barrier made things worse. (Common problem: Language) By the time instructions filtered down to me, they were... screwy.

I wound up designing a half-assed three-page pamphlet (not a portfolio) that depended on a lot of Freehand-generated gradients for its look.

This is exactly why I'm focusing on learning as many foreign languages as it'll take to hurdle the damned language barrier as fast as I can.

The company cannot, to be slightly sacrilageous, give birth to the Financial Savior if it can't make its way to Bethlehem without lurching drunkenly off course.

3. I was limited by my... I'm calling it my "Third World View" for lack of any better label. I cannot think out of everyone else's "box" because my own conceptual box was too limited by third world economics. All my life I've specialized in stopgaps, improvising solutions to publishing problems because I've never had the right tools, materials and training. (Many of the people I know in design picked up their software expertise on the fly.)

While it's great at showing up know-it-all foreigners who think they can blithely operate in any environment, it is fatal for me. I can't afford to be a know-it-all Third World rustic who postures vainly on the strength of his limited knowledge (which costs money, but that's another journal entry).

Maybe there is something to participating in the Great Filipino Diaspora. It's just too bad I'm too old to get on the bandwagon.

...


Anyway, I need to restructure my own goals given that the number of my optimal productive years are, to use a kind word, dwindling.

Shades of Michael Jackson

I’m in love with a fourteen-year-old. Which is to say-- by way of disclaimer-- that I am only fascinated by one, and not that I am utterly subject to the compulsions that currently define Michael Jackson and R. Kelly in the public eye.

Actually, there are two very cute fourteen-year-olds in my Japanese language class (Watakushi no Nihongo no kurasu ni totemo kawaii juuyonsai no onna no ko ga imasu.*) and they have done much to add to my interest in the class itself. My own questionable adult status forces me to interact with people closer to my chronological age. I thus find it refreshing to be the butt of a fourteen-year-old’s in-class jokes.

Asahiko-chan pinches hard, and that’s how you tell that she’s accepted your presence in her personal universe as unthreatening. She also calls you kuya-- or ate depending on your gender-- and asks you for grammatical help when sensei isn’t looking. Asahiko’s father is Japanese; apparently, he is flying his family to Japan. The Japanese language class is just some way of giving Asahiko something to do for the summer while her visa gets processed. I haven’t asked her if she really wants to go: while I have given some thought to the eventual difficulties of her adjustment to life in Japan, the question is moot.

I am resolved to give her something before she goes to Japan. She likes Card Captor Sakura, so maybe a drawing will do nicely.

I am interested in Arjane-chan primarily because of her eyes and the structure of her face. I like her nose, even if I normally find noses like hers protruding a little too far. I also like her spunk (she wants to work abroad, and is quite willing to forgo boys to do so) though I privately wish she would stay in the country to help fix the mess her parents’ parents’ generation helped make of it. Her drive and her willingness to undergo the inconvenience of night classes put me to shame. I hope with all my heart that she slips under the collective radar of every screwed-up schoolboy looking for love or a good lay. She doesn’t need the kind of crap I used to put girls through in my younger days.

I’ve never been a father; with my way of screwing up important deals, I wouldn’t want to be one. But I’ve always known that in a perfect world, I’d be honored to realize the desire to raise children-- daughters, preferably. I’m also cursed with having a teaching aptitude and absolutely no credentials. My inner child longs for playmates old and new. As much as I love kids my age, my heart will always hold a special place for children.

Have Bridge, Will Burn

"Have _____, will ______" is a word pattern in American English that means "If you have _______, then we'll do something about it." The phrase is most familiar to me when the words are "Have Bridge Will Burn."

Yes folks, Dex the Flake has struck again. The long and short of my latest gaffe is that people were depending on me and I let them down in a big way.

In the old days, I would have formally concluded my business with them. Then I would have walked away, never to trouble them again. In the same vein, if a friend had let me down --say on matters of money-- I would still have consorted with him, but I would never rely on him on anything to do with money again. If a friend stabbed me in the back, I would simply never be seen with him again-- I'd find another place to haunt, maybe.

But what worked so well with various acquaintances isn't going to work so well here. There are only so many places a man can disappear to, only so many times a man can flush his history down the toilet before he gets too tired to move away or start over. I have too much riding on the more-or-less recent friendships I've made to just drop everything and let "bygones be bygones." There is a world of wealth left for me to learn from the people I've betrayed and to look for new teachers would set my progress back by years if not defeat the purpose of my self-development.

I cannot even stay comfortably in the retreat house of madness or the watershed of self-pity. There is just too much to do and too damned little time to do it in.

I'm sick of saying I'm sorry. They deserve better from me. But here I am, at it again.

Sob Story

A friend came to me with this story. He'd been, yeah like me, in college since forever and as of last year, there was actually some hope of his getting out of that morass of broken promises. The failed business venture that broke apart his peer group was the first of several blows that served to sour him to his college experience. Everything went downhill after that. The romantic dalliance that nearly broke him only made staying there more unbearable, he said. And there wasn't any point in staying-- he was growing old vainly trying to graduate in the face of perennially missing grades and administrative gaffes, which compounded the consequences of his ...asinine life choices.

Just when it seemed that he was finally going to come away with his precious college parchment, he finds out that there was another gaffe. The administration people told him he had enough units to graduate. He did the stupid thing and trusted them, thinking maybe they were applying the new academic curriculum rules to his old case. Apparently not.

He now has interesting choices and I don't envy him for his position. I only pray he makes a wise and financially sound decision.

The Exigencies of Being Dex the Flake

One of the lousy things about me is my tendency to, yes, flake. My friends haven't called me on this too much, of course. They're too considerate of my feelings to rub this in my face. It doesn't affect them too much when I don't show up for something or have difficulty delivering on a promise. Well, most of the time.

My very real, very valid excuse is that I am generally mired in stuff that requires much of my time and attention. When one is part of my family, (i.e. living under the roof of one or both living parents) one is caught in a complex web of power relationships, intra-familial expectations and Christian guilt. It doesn't help that I have been battling problems with time management since the day I was born.

I compound my problem the way the rest of us humans do their faults by being unable to say "NO." In this, I am like my friend, er, Danica (not her real name). She takes upon herself projects seemingly without end mainly because she cannot stand inactivity, and because she'd rather be lost in work than remember that she has problems-- personal, work, FMA or what have you.

I am worse than Danica in this respect: I cannot help but indulge my own little messianism.

I have enormous difficulty saying "no" because a great part of my identity is woven into my personal desire to help someone, and in my ingrained cultural desire to please everybody.

I hate disappointing people: it's an ugly feeling.

Ironically, in promising all things, I get precious little done. And it doesn't help me that a big part of me is tied into what other people think of me or my work(1)-- I'm a illustrating performing artist for godssakes, I'm right up there with William Shatner, King of Ham.

I'm thinking maybe I should start saying "No" more often, even if it hurts Someone Important. If I dole out disappointment now, I won't have to deal with it later, when it's grown to monstrous proportions because my other obligations will have kept me from delivering.

------------------------
(1)This has actually been instrumental in saving my life. Even in my lowest of depressive states (which, thank the Lord, I fall into less and less) I could not bring myself to the point of suicide. As long as I'm alive, there's a chance to refute the claims that I am a failure and a loser because I'm a freelancer (read: BUM)who earns less than $100 a month.

My Big Fat Geek Assault and Robbery

The long and short of why I'm in my funk: I was robbed two weeks ago. This is the last time I'll talk about this in as much detail, because it needs to be put down somewhere and somebody other than the cops has to know.

The Long Way Home
It was my last day at work for a Makati-based firm, and I had taken the usual roundabout route home-- eating with my boss at the UP and then going to his house in Project 8, where I could get a jeep-ride home. I'd just gotten paid and I was raring to buy the enhancements I needed for my laptop... which I was carrying in one of my bags, (a nondescript gray and black backpack) along with my other portable electronics.

My bald boss, you see, is also my martial arts instructor and my good friend. As per our routine, we discuss work plus visual and martial arts matters over the dinner at the UP. After that, we proceed to his house where we exchange computer files, or --on a Sunday-- watch real (old) arnis masters and real (cute) Tai Chi sword form practitioners on VCD, and then part ways. I then take the Quiapo-bound jeepneys or cabs that pass directly by his house.

Obviously, my roundabout route consumed a lot of time. The job ended at around 17:00-18:00 (five to six p.m.) and my training at the Hotel Intercon branch of Red Corner began promptly at 19:00 (seven p.m.) and ended at 21:00 (nine).

We'd rush to catch the last of the north-bound electric trains, get off at Quezon Avenue and proceed to dinner at the UP Arcade: the mideastern food place catering to the needs of the foreign students at the UP International Center. We'd get there at 22:00 and finish dinner and work-talk an hour before midnight of the following day.

And so it was that my boss and I found ourselves hailing a Quiapo-bound jeepney in front of his house in Project 8 in the middle of the night.

Something Off
It's trite to say so, but I did feel that something was off. I had a strong desire to take a cab and I had the money to do so. But I also had debts to pay and I didn't want to bleed any more money than I already did on a regular basis. So I got on the jeepney, thinking I could take a nap and daydreaming of how the USB scanner I was to buy was going to complete my portable graphic design and rendering office.

I sat complacently in the passenger compartment near the front of the vehicle. I had started to nod off when the jackass beside me pulled out his knife and announced the holdup. I vaguely heard another voice repeating the announcement, because my world had constricted to include only myself and the jerk next to me trying to alternately take my bags and poke me with his knife.

Vulcan Logic
Time slowed and I was able to determine that--

1. the knife was old, had probably seen action in a war, to judge by the number of nicks;
2. the knife had two dull edges-- not a significant slashing threat-- and a diamond profile;
3. the knife was at least six inches long-- definite stabbing threat.

He had tried to intimidate me, tried to stab me (I blocked with my bag), tried to show me the logic of letting go of my stuff. Powerful reasoning, but in that primal moment, my mind was racing, trying to multitask between keeping hold of my bag, not getting stabbed and finding a non-violent solution that would allow me to keep my laptop.

If found it intellectually satisfying to discover that my initial analysis about the knives was sound. Bag-Grabber had managed, with a stabbing motion, to open a wound in my right arm, but the knife was just too dull to make the desired cut as bloody as he would have liked. Still, all that needed to happen for him to be sate his battle gods --his machismo and his typical Filipino pride-- was for one of the knives to wind up deep enough in any of the soft-but-vital areas on my person that were still unprotected.

Reality Bites
It was then that I fully noticed the jackass's friend-- the guy seated in front of me, pressing the same type of knife on the jeepney driver's nape. The words "No Win" sounded in my head.

I had a silly mental image of myself as Robotech flying ace Rick Hunter--Captain by the time the novels got to this point-- caught between his duty to sequester a Zentraedi sizing chamber for the government and an angry crowd being stirred up by his civilian nemesis, Lynn-Kyle.

I let go of the backpack and the jerk in front of me hit me in the face for being stubborn. He also tried to stab me-- I'm uncertain of where exactly he was aiming, but I angled my body at the last second (I think that's what happened) and the knife made a heroic, if futile, effort to bury itself in my shoulder. Bag-Grabber had then begun a lecture on the futility of being matigas-- standing up to him and his ilk.

"Do You Betray Me With a Kiss?"
It's funny, but Face-Puncher looked a lot like my friend Pacs. It wasn't him of course. Pacs had fuller lips. I'd been betrayed by friends before, but even the "Judases" in my life never stooped to open and unfair physical aggression.

I tongued my teeth behind my upper jaw and was surprised that none were even loose. I'd seen stars when Evil Pacs-clone launched a sraight punch to my face, but I was surprised that there was very little pain. I was keyed for a fight, perhaps? Maybe if he'd hit me in the nose there'd be a different story.

Still, and I will get up on a mountain peak and shout it out for the world to hear:
Pacs-clone punched like a girl.

Departure
There were four robbers, I saw, when my world had finally expanded to encompass the jeepney, the other frightened passengers, the night. I was still in terrible danger because I'd seen the mugs on Pacs-clone and Bag-Grabber. Still, they were satisfied with their haul... or would be, once they'd open my bag to find a portable graphic designer's office among my personal effects. They ordered the jeepney to turn into a side street and promptly got off, admonishing us in dire tones not to look back at them.They disappeared into the night.

Cops
The other passengers got the driver to bring them to a lonely police outpost somewhere near the robbers's escape point. It was just too bad there was only one cop manning the desk. He called up the neighborhood watch, who arrived in a mobile unit and we made a futile search for lawbreakers on-the-run. We returned to the Bahay Toro outpost, where the incident was put on the blotter.

Remind me not to vote for the city officials who decreed that the nearest viable police station should be miles away from Bahay Toro. The lone officer manning the desk had told us, that was where we had to go to file a complaint and make a statement. We all lost the stomach for further pursuit, knowing that we had to travel dark roads again to get there and risk another assault and robbery.

The other passengers went home. I called my house-- I didn't memorize Honey's cellular phone numbers, and her home phone had just been changed-- and very, very, very reluctantly spoke with Mom.

I still had my money--four thousand hard-earned bucks--but I'd lost so much more. This had become a cop matter, and as with all things cop, Mom had to be told.

You'd think surviving your first knife fight would have slaked your own battle gods and fed your ego, but having to run back under Mom's iron skirt told me I still had a long way to go before I could fully consider myself a man.

I'm sick of other people's blogs. Really. But that's partly because I haven't been as diligent in putting my thoughts to e-paper, despite the many things happening demanding to be put down on paper for posterity.

I'm sick of other people's blogs because most of the writers are either around my age (same angst, same problems, same interests) or they're just too young (been there, done that, please realize there is a life beyond high school, cell phones, clubbing and petty crime!).

I'm sick of other people?s blogs because I'm sick of my own blogs. Really, who gives a shit about an opinionated has-been local comic book personality who only got famous because he was friend to Elmer, Jio, Ilog and James? I can hear my silent readers yelling "Get over it!" And they'd be right.

I am sick of blogs in general because writing simply takes too much time and energy. It's disappointing having to disappoint readers who want to know more about what goes on in one's head, when absolutely nothing occupies one's head for long stretches of time.

I want to write-- something new, fresh and spontaneous. I want to love writing the way I want to love painting and comic books.

Help me, God, I can't do this alone.

Simmed

I want to be able to play The Sims 2 again.

My pop had tired of seeing his kids burning the midnight oil on computer games—never mind that they were all over 18 (the “It’s my house; my rules” argument rears its ugly but valid head)— and ordered me to remove all extant games. I foresaw a time when the rule would wisely be rescinded, and so I deleted all the exe files.

But I forgot to make copies.

When I made like an anal deity and subcreated –with a little help from the overworked slaves as Maxis– I made a small number of families and seeded them throughout two towns. I would dearly love to visit them again and interfere with their lives on a level my mother wishes she could interfere in mine. (Thank God this really is only a game.)

In Veronaville, I was busily raising two beautiful daughters and waiting for my awfully nice, if womanizing, son to wed one of them.

I had so dearly wanted young Anghelos to wed Ayane, but the age gap between the two sims may be too large, requiring an expensive wait on Anghelos’s part. Ayane and Anghelos used to date when they were both adolescents— she hit her teens just as he was close to leaving his. Anghelos hit adulthood first.

Ayane’s older sister Kasumi is of the marrying age and she is very much in love with Anghelos. Time is not on Kasumi’s side either and if I do not constantly play the interfering anal deity, she will get Anghelos to marry her.

It seems that even in this computer-generated existence, men are so easily led by the women who know exactly what reins to pull on.

…
Anghelos has a younger brother, Mikhail Maedhros. When I left, Maedhros was on the verge of puberty. Because I am an interfering anal deity, he will never reach puberty until his sister Feawyn transitions from toddler to child.

I am loath to rob Maedhros of his innocence— I would relish seeing his father or mother reading to him a few more times before he outgrows the need— because this child is so damned nice.

If there was a way to guarantee that his childhood friend (a non-player controlled sim) Katherine Gregory ages with him, I’d happily let the age transition happen. I don’t want him to be alone and friendless outside of his family.
…

I am reluctant to allow parents Kirk and Moriah to transition into old age. This is natural and necessary in this world, but the game’s dynamics allow us player-deities to play favorites to the hilt. With the proper cheat codes, we can bestow wealth to— and destroy enemies of— our favored sims. We can even grant them a functional immortality.

I want many little Kirks running around the house before Moriah becomes an elder.

Define "Irony"

Irony is a martial arts practitioner getting robbed at knifepoint.
Irony is a robber who punches like a girl.
Irony is a dull knife drawing blood from my arm.
Irony is losing my means of livelihood on the same night I finished earning enough money to improve it.

Telemarked

I feel awful.

I've been ringing up a third of the European Chamber of Commerce in the Philippines--yes, we have an ECC here-- in the vain hope that tewnty of their number sign up for a workshop that's only about three weeks away.

The few calls that make it past the company's front desk are routed to and intercepted by secretaries who are paid to say "No, he isn't here." To be fair, most of them have (graciously or rudely) offered to take the faxed or emailed invitation to their bosses to look at. Nobody wants to set up a meeting with my supervisor, and nobody wants to go to a damn workshop-- even if the facilitators are Japan-based master trainer Elizabeth Matsui and Johnson & Johnson product development and management alumnus and corporate guru Beth MacDonald.

Never mind that those three days will involve exciting, fun-filled, intensely interactive training activities designed to further sharpen your already formidable motivational skills and increase your company's productivity by increasing your rapport with virtually anyone working under you.

Never mind that you will be rubbing shoulders with other leaders in business or the academe like yourself at the spacious, comfortable and well-stocked Asian Institute of Management Conference Center in the beating heart of Philippine commerce, Makati City.

Nooo. The latest applications of Neuro. Linguistic. Programming. in a motivational setting don't interest them at all. Mind control does not interest the disciples of big business!

Naaw. The money and time they're spending in Boracay or in Hong Kong are far too important to splurge on something as trivial as profitable and effective guided self-development that actually affects your students or your employees.

...........

But I'm griping. And it's not fair of me to pick on them so.

If I were in their shoes, I'd be hard pressed myself to respond to the obvious benefits of this workshop called Masterful Manipula-- er, Masterful Facilitation.(1) I'd want to go home to my wife or my mistress and bang her (pick your meaning) silly. I'd want to go on that well-deserved Christmas leave and not worry about conferences, seminars or what have you until after the new year is well underway.

............

I'm in need of a leave myself. I'm retooling my damn spiel and preparing to charge into making those phone calls tomorrow. Maybe then I won't be stuttering so much.

C'est la vie.

----------------------------
(1)Masterful Facilitation conducted by Elizabeth Matsui and Beth MacDonald. Workshop starts Jan 14th and ends on the 16th. In case none of the members of our local ECC express interest in ths thing, you can call these numbers or stop by the address for more details.

PSI-Asia (The Center for Leadership)
14th Floor 6780 Ayala Avenue, Makati City, Philippines
tel nos. 813-1188 813-1189 813-1173
http://www.psi-asia.org

Somebody Spiked the Turkey

Mom had complained of flu-like symptoms, and when these persisted even after a couple of days, she agreed to be taken to the hospital. Not just any hospital. Just the one government hospital specializing in hearts-- black or red, broken or otherwise. When we were finally assured that she had a room and a bed and that she was unlikely to go the way of Da King, I promptly left for Sampaloc to pick up the barongs Mom was s'posed to pay for.

But that's got nothing to do with the turkey.

Ian had invited me to his Christmas soiree (happening on the same night my mother was inconvenienced with having to go to a hospital) some weeks before. And because I loved the man and the food he so generously served, (yes, the infamous turkey) I went. After the family had secured for Mom a place to lie down and be treated for the ravages of stress.

I slapped samples from various meat dishes, potatoes, rice and gravy on my plate, proceeding to pick at the stuff while talking to Nikka and Ian's friend S. I was noting to myself how great Nikka looked and that S. had lost weight and was looking splendid in her strangely zippered top when I felt a strange, lucid lassitude. Everyone blamed it on how full we all were, probably riding high on carbohydrates and light beer.

And we jokingly laid the most blame on the turkey and Ian's custom ice cream. The fact that there wasn't any left by the time I arrived is testament to how good the ice cream is.

I was wallowing in the strange sense of well-being, looking for D____ actually, in between looking at the women and looking for anyone from my old alma mater. All the while, Swamp and hubby Adam were regaling a small audience with tales of China, France, Italy, devolving English and computer-aided art. I was listening, of course, but I was too... high ...to chime in except for the nodding, the "yes"-ing and the lit eyes tracking the speaker (when they weren't trying to track the women).

Ian would tell me later that there really is some sort of natural chemical in turkey meat, something that made you want to sleep off the rest of Thanksgiving. Or Hannukah. Or whatever occasion demanded the consumption of turkey.

But we never could get why I was affected by it so much... my own body chemistry, perhaps?

No sooner do I make my plans than these are broken, lost to the winds of unforseen circumstance, inaction and the consequent rationalizations that come with knowing you had a duty and you didn't follow through. Well, not entirely-- I was able to get myself that keyboard I so needed so I could interact with my laptop without fear of electrocution.

Meantime, I'm progressing in my Tai Chi lessons-- I finally know more about why I have to contort myself into all sorts of uncomfortable positions than I ever did three years ago. My teacher is pleased, I'm pleased myself, and I'm very eager to get my ass to Los Banos and compare notes with Homer. . .

The two halves of my collegiate life have now been officially recognized by the University. My transcript has finally been updated to the satisfaction of all who have a stake in the contents. After ten long freaking years in college and three years in limbo, I can finally, finally kiss the stigma of not finishing goodbye.

Yes, Mrs. R., despite all the protestations of your ilk (my mom included), your son's friend is NOT "sayang." Boy that felt good.

...

As with most Dex Lira victories, this one is partial. I am neither proud of my transcript nor am I completely out of the long dark tunnel yet. But I see the light at the end of such tunnels, and it is only a matter of time before I cross the threshold into the warm sunshine and the smell of fresh-cut grass.

Too, there is the matter of furthering my education and turning the morass into something profitable. I have a working transcript. Now I have to find a correspondence school to show it to.

My mother nagged me last year into taking that entrance examination (I passed) at the Philippine _______ University-- for an education course that would require little more than a semester's work. (The reward would have been an actual license, recognized by everyone who was under the power of the Philippine Government, to teach little kids.) I could not proceed with that option because records of my college life were fragmented. I might still face an impediment if the reevaluation of my records shows that they do not pass muster.

I have to plan my life again, make revisions: activities I wish I didn't have to do. Events are so fluid and seeking to control these to the smallest detail can literally get tiring. But having a plan is better than not having one, even if the main part of the plan involves playing a lot of things by ear.

Masta Plann

While lying on the bed of Procrustes, one remembers the many other things one has been putting off. Suddenly these take upon themselves a newfound urgency.

1. Upgrade the laptop.
I've been meaning to install Windows XP into this sucker since the day I installed the new Windows XPerience in the family PC. Evil Bill (Gates) has definitely topped himself since the introduction of Windows '95--everything else in between being treated as glorified patches leading to the near-seamless joy that is Windows XP.

Makes me all a-quiver with anticipation.

Here's the rub: Honey took the aged Compaq's DVD writer with her, and is halfway to grafting the thing to her new-purchased secondhand IBM. I will have to get very creative and very careful, if I am to install Windows XP into what may be a marginally compatible platform. I want to be able to undo all the changes I've got planned for my trusty blogging companion in case the planned XP installation doesn't take properly. After all, the heart of my laptop's central nervous system is a Pentium III that registers as a Pentium II.

While I'm at it, I should get one of those USB splitters-- I know, they're not called splitters, but their function is pretty much the same. I only have one USB port for three devices, two of which have to be connected to the laptop for all the time the thing is running.

I am assuming that the built-in LCD monitor cannot be repaired unless I shell out a heinous amount of money to pay for it, or buy a new laptop entirely (maybe a Powerbook).

In the unlikely event that money falls like manna from the sky into my waiting lap, there is the matter of paying Kervin what I owe him as well as buying a new battery. The laptop's utility is cut in half if it can't be used far, far away from an electrical outlet.

I'll also be needing some wire and alligator clips. A new keyboard too-- something small, portable, durable and shielded to allow me to keep my distance from the laptop's main body. I'm actually sensing a nasty buildup of static electricity from this thing. The only things keeping me from getting toasty-warm from this thing are the old battery and the ambient humidity of Philippine climes.

2. Finish my CD portfolio.
I need a working scanner and a viable plan for this one. I've been crippled since Happy Ron took his scanner back. I've got to collect my "floating" (read: scattered) artwork and sift through them all so I can pick what deserves to be in there.

Then I have to organize the artwork according to how I want to package myself and what I can do. To that end, I need other incidentals-- like new calling cards, shamelessly self-promotional flyers and identity cards I can leave with surly guards. I also need to polish my Photoshop and Freehand skills and learn the workings of more new software. Joy.

3. Compile my poems and put them in a codex.

4. Finish The Damned Comic Book.
And prove to certain people that I am worthy of their respect. How I'm going to put this on paper is still a mystery, being right up there with publishing my poetry compilation and inviting all my old flames to the launch (Angelica will, of course, never find the time to attend, as she never made it to any of my poetry readings-- when they were still permitted-- at Powerbooks Makati).

At any rate, I can still post the thing online, probably in one of my blogs or on that dratted DeviantArt account I signed up for but can't seem to contribute to.

5. Write new poems and stories and continue old ones; make new art.
Self-explanatory, this. I can't grow if I don't practice. To that end I have to buy more equipment--better equipment-- and reference materials. Lots of job-hungry young Turks out there to compete with. I cannot afford to be left behind, lest I become old and obsolete-- a nasty prospect any way one looks at it. So much the better to be the irreverent old bastard who can continually surprise his young apprentice.

6. Finally design me grand aunt's market stall signage.
She hasn't nagged me, which is all the more reason to finally put that concept I've been playing with on paper. If I can make one more person smile before meeting the grim reaper, I can consider my time on this planet well spent.

7. Pimp myself to art hounds more aggressively.

Again, The Stupid Procrustean Bed

Pussyfooting. The damned letter won't write itself while you're doing inconsequential stuff, Dex. Meanwhile you can't sleep and the other stuff you need to do just piles up in front of you. Damn.

Oh, Joy. La Dee Da.

From a friend's blog. Took it twice and varied results within a reasonable range. Turns out I'm still the George Clooney wannabe.

You Are the Peacemaker

9 You are emotionally stable and willing to find common ground with others. Your friends and family often look to you to be the mediator when there is conflict. You are easy going and accepting. You take things as they come. Avoding conflict at all costs, you're content when things are calm.

What number are you?

Green

The Green Mile(s)

A few weeks ago, I swung by Los Banos with the double-goal of seeing my friends and fixing those dratted loose ends from my early collegiate life that still haunt to this day. Happily, I got to do both. I talked shop with some of my old friends-- too bad I couldn't round up all of them.

I don't go to Los Banos often anymore, as doing odd media-related jobs doesn't bring in the money it used to. I'm also paying for my Tai Chi training, so what used to go to my travel fund goes to Sifu Russel's gas, coffee and pie. It was a relief though, seeing miles of nearly unbroken green whizzing by at eighty kilometers an hour, from the inside of a Laguna-bound vehicle, and not have to pay for the voyage. (Thanks, Mom!)

I stopped by Nelrose Place, site of so much intrigue and one of my Los Banos retreats. Host Nel was considering enrolling in an aerobics course, or at least going swimming on a regular basis. Meantime, he'd be laying groundwork for let's just say... family-related economic affairs.

Nel fed me tofu for lunch-- great for the soul, lousy for the joints-- and let me proceed to the new registrar's office. Surprise, surprise-- they lost their much-villified inefficiency and produced for me a new copy of my old transcript on time! I fondled and caressed my reborn transcript like it was a beautiful woman I hadn't seen since our first date.

The Green Mind

Then I swung by the Anker's, where I met with Kervin and Gar-Gar. From there, we phoned Homer, and told him via text message to stop wanking off to his (currently downloading) porn.

Disclaimer: For the record, Homer does not delve in porn for a living. Otherwise we'd see him haunting the halls of the reconstructed Virra Mall. None of us knew what Homer might have been doing at the time we called him, but we like harping on Homer's somewhat undeserved rep as Hentai Lord, because we're such sick sons of our mothers. Happy birthday, Homer!

We played several mean rounds of Soul Calibur 2 at a nearby gaming place that reminded us eerily of --

Homer and Gar-Gar: "The set of Silent Hill 4. Creepy."
Kervin and Dex: "A tick-infested brothel in Cubao. Creepy."

Green Costume

Perhaps it's because we were all geeks marked by social troubles at one time or other in our brief lives that our Soul Calibur battle turned into a nearly all-female kumite. No shocker there. Even considering that Kervin is an imposing gay guy who likes beary men.

What surprised was the sheer proficiency and brilliance that Gar-Gar displayed while playing Soul Calibur newcomer Talim. He paced his games according to the skill levels of his opponents. The fights were interesting until Gar-Gar knocked us out of the ring or poked and stabbed us senseless. And we were such masochists...

I was no slouch with Seung Mi-Na, even after all the time I didn't play her (owing to the fact that I don't own a PS2) but I was always beaten soundly. It was a relief to hand the controller to the next waiting player, since I didn't have the stomach to see my favorite CG Korean lass get slammed into walls, raked by multi-barbed whips or pummeled by visiting Tekken characters. But it was joy when Mi-Na kicked ass (as she sometimes did it literally). Too bad she didn't have her green costume-- the one that showed off her legs and featured her short hair-- for this iteration of Soul Calibur.

I ended my brief preoccupation with "green" after practicing Tai Chi with Homer. Even now, he is still the better practitioner, having a better grasp of the forms-- but I may have the dubious distinction of being gradually versed in an older iteration of the style we were practicing. He is a joy to watch when he practices his Tai Chi sword forms and I never miss a chance to pester him for an exhibition. We had dinner (Homer's birthday gift, on me), talked more shop and decided to call it an evening. I hope to be able to practice with him again the next time I'm in Laguna, with more forms added to my repertiore.

Contrary to my smiling countenance and my easygoing banter, my life is not "okay." There is more that can be done to "improve" it, make it more "productive," more "profitable." Sadly, the solutions to my problems-- while within my power to carry out via the two C's, commitment and compliance-- are never within my power to forsee. Others are always more than qualified to diagnose what's wrong with my life and formulate solutions because they've lived longer and are earning more in a week than I ever will in two years of honest work in the fields I know.

That's the conventional thinking in the Quezon City farmhouse. That is also part of the thinking that informs Honey's life choices.

To be fair, I haven't been very open about where my life has been leading; what my plans are (if I have any). It still annoys me, the often abused question-- "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

* * *

It galls that my achievements are often overlooked in the mad, if belated, rush to develop a Dexter Lira who can take on the world and win. (My "achievements" are of the modest kind: there are literally kids out there running their own successful businesses, mounting their own assaults on high fashion and the status quo, et cetera, ad nauseam. ) It galls more that I never wanted to be rushed to begin with.

When I was young, I was creature of boundless impatience-- there were whole worlds to see and discover. (Shine, young man, shine!!!) After years of being slapped down, bullied and walked on, I ended up asking myself "What's the point?"

Artists become great only after they've died. Scientists are generally vindicated long after they've been crucified by people afraid of changing their worldview. Writers (here) are never really respected, only reduced to making speeches for people they don't respect. And intellectuals exist only to provide amusing brain teasers for the people who don't have time to think. This blogger can't even rant without attracting derision.

You can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.

* * *

It galls that for very life well-lived there are thousands of others so senselessly wasted. Well, one is only a loser so long as one loses. And one winning or losing streak does not a life define.

I am, after all, not dead. Yet.

Family

Cousin Ami

She's baaaaack. And just what was she thinking trying to get herself enrolled at the University of the Philippines? She'd had it so good at the University of Minnesota! I guess my cousin got bitten by the same bug that seems to favor foreigners like Tadao Hayashi, David Pomeranz and Keith Martin. They stop by here and suddenly want to stay. While getting bitten is fatal mistake for some (Hayashi), Ami feels it is eminently right for her to be here.

And who am I to argue? There's a willowy blonde with striking blue eyes living at the International Center, a floor below Ami's would-be room. Hey, hey-- minds out of the gutter! I meant that if she and Ami ever get acquainted, I'm going to paint her.

Hmmm... time to engineer a friendship...

Cousin Ferdey

I'm at his place now, blogging on the fly while the computer installs crucial software and updates in the background. As I'm forced to stay in Quezon City for the nonce, I'm keen on getting away from the parents and get some work done without their noses and chins poking into my face. The Sta. Mesa hideaway being unavailable for the moment, my cousin's well-designed, well-maintained sanctuary is an ideal place.

Some people will never be content until they know everything about anything and anyone. Not that it's intrinsically bad, human curiosity being an impeller of human progress and endeavor-- besides, I'm like that. The point is, all that prying into one's life often impedes what little progress there is to be made in the refinement of that life. Though they may argue that all the prying is only part of the refining crucible and that one shouldn't complain.

Note to self: I'm not going to put my own kid through too much of this. All prying, if prying must be done at all, should be conducted with the discreetness of a smooth and capable private detective, else the kid gets paranoid and starts fearing-- not trusting-- you.

Happy birthday, Pop!

Coming Home and Having to Come Back Later

Coming home to Sta. Mesa was an odd experience. I was reminded that I had to pick up some laundry from the cleaners a month ago: I saw the laundry claim stub lying in apparent languor in one of my "survival money" bins. A colony of termites had decided to extend its residential tunnels into the apartment and onto the ceramic floor. The mice and lizards were scarce, though their leavings were plentiful near the hole in the kitchen counter.

I spent this afternoon breaking out- and bussing about with- the Blu Star (detergent), my custom-made Perla (myrmex-repellant) nebulizer and the hydrophilic mop. I was Domestic Dex again.

Honey's no slob. But her assertion that her sched leaves her little time for domestic cleanups is more believeable than Suede's. That band could at least afford to hire people to pick up after them. Until recently, Honey had me for the job.

There were other loose ends. My painting, Celphone Girl, still needed a smile and a long overdue adjustment of her eyes. I'd been working on it on-and-off since 2002.

I had to return to Tatalon, as I still had a cartload of personal and professional errands to finish off. It was comforting(!) to be able to eat in the same student-subsistence eatery. Ditto to take the train to the nearest SM mall on the way back.

As I write I'm prepping for another excursion out of here. More errands.

Fringe Living Alone?

It occurs to me that I may soon have no beautiful woman about whom to feel very blessed. I will either--

1. prematurely expire from a preventable disease or some act of human stupidity; or
2. she will "wise up" and leave me for someone better equipped to protect her future progeny.

Whatever happens, happens. Life is too short for me to cry over spilled milk-- now or in the forseeable future. One thing is certain: If she leaves, I'll never be able to call anyone else Honey again. Unless that's her given name.

Maybe I should start looking up Kristin-clone. Or maybe I oughta be a Man's Man instead? Scott Bakula is kinda cute...

The Bed of Procrustes, Revisited

I've been pussyfooting around a task for a week now. This ain't good. My excuse is that the glare from the monitor is enervating, and when dealing in work I wish I didn't have to do, this enervation is simply too much to take. I know, of course, that I have to plow through it anyway. So I'm getting out my trusty wad of paper and doing it there.
...

Of course, Procrustes and his bed have little to do with procrastination. But for all the work I've not done, I might as well be tied to the cursed thing. If you were too tall, Procrustes gleefuly cut off your offending limbs. If you were too short to fit the bed, he stretched you mercilessly until you did.

Sundays in Lira-Land

Like College All Over Again
This morning I missed another Tai Chi class. The last time was on account of the minor mess that immediately followed my Granny's death. This morning I had to contend with yet another entrance/proficiency exam. Having taken them most of my life, I was mildly surprised-- and miffed-- that I couldn't completely answer the "math" parts of the test. I had to use up all the time required for the exam, much to my chagrin. Rightly or not, I'd feel very disappointed if I were to find out I didn't make the passing score.

Side Trip to Smallville
After I returned the chairs my co-examinees had liberated from the other classrooms, I made my way to the UP to catch the arnis class that followed my aborted Tai Chi session. I got lucky-- I actually found a girl at the UP Shopping Center who bore a resemblance to Kristin Kreuk. She handed me my mineral water and change with a smile that I readily returned. Never mind that we both liked what we saw: I had Honey, I had to get to the arnis class and Kristin-clone was probably still a minor. I had to scuttle nascent thoughts of shameless attention-seeking. But tarrying at the Shopping Center a few more minutes to appreciate her was well worth missing the arnis warmups.

I walked to the UP Lagoon literally thanking God for making my morning. It only occured to me to ask Him politely if I could run into Allison Mack much, much later.

Happy Hour
Jo-- our friendship goes back a ways-- had postponed her lunch birthday blowout last week. Which meant there would be no videoke, no beer, and no Slow Rock Extravaganza(R). Lucky for us, she finally decided that it would be cheaper to simply feed her friends at Mang Jimmy's in the Balara area. Had someone asked me if there were deeper motives for Jo's change of venue, I would have provided one: she wanted to spare herself the music of Queen, Nazareth, the Scorpions, Rod Stewart, the April Boys and Aegis...-- part of the Slow Rock Extravaganza I promised her.

I promise everyone who can't stand the slow rock music blaring incessantly from our jeepneys-- yes, they got featured in the last Amazing Race-- that I will render unto him the Slow Rock Performance of a Lifetime on his birthday. Complete with my frighteningly convincing drunken slurring and lewd multiple personality/bipolar behavior.

It's all in good fun: Everyone gets a laugh, I get to de-stress and lampoon our people's drinking habits. I swear, few things are as frightening as burly unwashed drunken tattooed Filipino males jockeying for the videoke microphone.

A Word of Thanks

Those of you who wrote to comfort me; those of you who came to the wake and the burial; those of you who prayed for my Granny or my family; those of you who simply wished me well-- you guys are wonderful people. I cannot thank you enough for the comfort you have made me feel.

When the tears had finally come, moments before the coffin was laid into the earth at the well-manicured grass of the Heritage Park in Taguig, I was not crushed by grief. I'd always known that the feisty old woman, who had made it a habit to round us up at six p.m. so we could sullenly pray the Angelus, had lived a full life, and by some standards was guaranteed a decent place in the Great Hereafter. I remember telling my friend Eline that these tears were not an evil thing. When the tears came, I welcomed them as a sign that I was "normal" enough to feel what others were feeling about Lola's passing; I had marvelled that there were no tears when I first touched her corpse to look for signs of life.

Pamilya ng mga Tsismoso

I'm a little peeved at my family, though how their minds worked was understandable. They'd actually thought Eline was my girlfriend. What happened to Anna? they wondered. I didn't bother to point out that Granny's funeral was hardly the time to be speculating about my love life. I dispelled notions of anything romantic between me and my good friend, but someone is bound to be unable to let the matter drop...

My love life is sacrosanct while we are unmarried, Family. Especially during funerals and other occasions where we gather.

The Wake

Her full name is Germana Araneta Sebastian. She's Dex Lira's grandma on his Mom's side. She's dead.

Her corpus is lying in La Funeraria Paz, along G. Araneta Avenue in Quezon City. It's one jeepride away (going towards E. Rodriguez) from the intersection of G. Araneta- and Quezon Avenues.

The Funeral Mass will be held at 9:30 a.m. Tuesday, 28 September. Interment will be at the Heritage Park, Fort Bonifacio, Taguig, immediately following the Funeral Mass in La Funeraria Paz’s North Wing Chapel.

Dex will-- because he's comitted to rushing a project for Gawad Kalinga through all of Sunday-- be at the Funeraria for most of Monday, and Tuesday morning. Yes, he'll most likely be around for the burial.

Catholics, other People of the Book and members of other strains of Christianity who believe in the efficacy of prayers for the dead are warmly enjoined to pray for the deceased. Christians of the Protestant/Evangelical persuasions, as well as members of the Ecclesia of Christ, are as warmly enjoined to pray for the living.

Please be assured that your simple presence and your prayers afford us much needed comfort and solace. We will not forget you in our hearts and in our own prayers.

Thank you.

Granny's Dead

I think she died in the night. My sister pulled me out of the room a few minutes ago to tell me that Granny may not be breathing. I tried to move her arm but it was stiff. While Mom tried to rouse my doctor brother, I put a saucer to granny's nose: no moisture. I couldn't be sure, though, as her breathing had been weak lately, and there were tubes providing her with oxygen and

Shit.

My brother's awake now. I think he's looked Granny over. She's gone.

Q-&-A

Q. How is Granny?
A. She's almost always, to my eyes, in some sort of pain. Human contact, particularly from warm hands, is a comfort. She's stronger now, so maybe the damned disease read my letter and decided to ease the pressure on my Granny. Not to read like a vulture, but methinks everyone is just waiting for her to die.

Sidebar: All of us are waiting to die. It just doesn't hit home until-- we're 80; under siege from a deadly, incurable disease; or attacked by a bunch of curable ones latching onto you one after another like unwanted relatives. Hmmm... kinda brings new meaning to Roberta Flack's Killing me Softly.

Q. How are you?
A. Sick. Something respiratory. Am harboring suspicions that it might be that bacterial infection with the flu-like symptoms featured last night on local tv. I am infirm, but saddled by the need to meet a deadline, so I cannot really rest.

Deadline? Job? you ask. Nahh, it's not "really" work: because it pays in prestige and goodwill but not money. Tell you all about it when I'm done. Do or die time. As I told my client's rep: "Don't thank me yet."

I got myself some new rubber shoes, recently, for P250. Buys like this satisfy Macho Dex and Domestic Dex: I have been rarely as happy with my purchases. Guess the folks at Gawad Kalinga are right: give a man a little dignity (in my case, new shoes) and he can be motivated to do all sorts of things. Why not stop by http://www.gawadkalinga.org/ by the by, and have yerselves a look-see?

Old McDaddy

They say you're getting old when you begin to enjoy the company of children, or such chores as feeding chickens, more than you do making money. I see my Dad feeding chickens and I can feel his smile from where I'm lying down-- in the living area, a good ten paces from our backyard-- and I know this piece of urbanite folk wisdom is true.

I'm not that old, --I'm still young enough to be ambitious-- but I'm happy that Dad gets his kicks from simple things. They don't cost him much and they serve to keep him young. Of course, this means I get to wake up to the odd goings-on in the family abode. Like livestock running loose in the dining room, a dog and cat sharing the master's bed, a myna that must have worked in a call center in its previous human incranation.

At least, his simple pleasures don't involve unhealthy doses of women, wine or (thank God!) videoke.

Granny is Dying

Her cervical cancer, previously in remission, has come back with a vengeance. As usual, the timing stinks.

"Dear Disease, The next time you decide to flare up, please show my family the courtesy of appearing during times of plenty; not when everyone on these islands is existing hand-to-mouth. Thank you. Love, Dex."

I'd feel like flaying key people in government for flushing the country down the toilet if I didn't have a hand in it myself: everyone who walked into a Starbucks or who carelessly left the tap open, did, even if to a miniscule degree.

The point is moot, of course. There is little else I can do but stay by Granny every chance I get until she passes or death is staved off for another short, if indefinite, period. Which means I must weather Mother's constant admonitions to "fix your life," "help yourself" and "find a stable job." I almost find the sights and smells of Granny's makeshift sickroom a visual and olfactory feast in comparison.

I never liked sickrooms. I never liked being in them, seeing them nor smelling them-- especially smelling them. There is something unsettling, if morbidly honest, about being around a person who is literally being eaten away by disease. I love a good campy horror movie as much as anyone, but real sickrooms hit too close to home.

This is how it ends, young man. You grow old, your organs begin to fail or maybe the cancer begins to develop. Or maybe you trip over something and you break yourself on the staircase or get hit by a crazed biker. It's always something like that.

I know, you're afraid. That's what you get for laughing in my face all the time. You think your preoccupation with cataloguing all the names of my instruments was going to save you or your Granny from me? I'm Death. I've got all the pathology degrees.

Look: even after your Granny goes, "Necrosis" will still be your favorite word; It'll be right up there with "sepsis" and "gangrene." And "necrotising arachnidism." When I take you, you'll still be laughing in my face so you can show your audience a brave front. You can take a little comfort in that. But for your sake, I'd rather you take comfort (and maybe some responsibility) in this--

I'm a mirror and a reminder. Every time I take somebody, you will look at me, and see yourself. All life is precious-- but what have you done with yours to prove it?

I'll be back soon enough. Expect a pop quiz.

Grounded

I'm at the Quezon City family residence right now, nursing an off-and-on respiratory sickness. By all rights I should be at the house of a friend, writing my prose novel, or making that graphic novel about a guy named Kirk and his complicated love life. As things stand, I'm helping Mom with another speech and doing odd jobs round the house for a little money... in between curling up in bed feeling awful, watching tv and fine-tuning the (finally!) new PC.

Side note: I'm sure my respiratory funk will be banished once I start getting new (even if short-term) purpose back into my life. Despite the unsavory feelings stirred by working for my mother, she at least pays. Not well, but she pays, and that's good enough for me for now.

What I really miss about my home in Sta. Mesa is Honey. Honey and wonderful running water. Baths here are hard to time, what with eight people vieing for precious bathroom resources every morning. I should learn to tailor my behavior here accordingly-- bathe and brush my teeth in the afternoons.

I'll be joining Honey soon enough... I've managed to outlast her girlfriends staying at the Sta. Mesa hideaway, so it's reasonable to assume I can outlast her Australian relatives, newly arrived for some Family fun.

C'est la vie.

Eddie Manoy/Vic Vargas Moment

Honey’s having a number of her girl friends stay over from Sunday through Wednesday of next week. That means I’ll be a hobo until Thursday.

P’wes, sa susunod na Linggo, mag-uuwi rin ako ng babae!

Nyahahaha! Heeheeheehee! Hwek hwek hwek hwek!

Okay, enough inanity...

Woman Channel

Honey is coming back from her training trip in a few days. I cannot believe she's only been gone two weeks. A lot's happened, a mix of great and rotten and I intend to tell her about it in an environment conducive to restful conversation.

I've thrown out a ton of trash and moved some of the furniture around again. I've renewed my war with the ants, defoliating the floor with soap solution, strong detergents and alcohol. I'm shining the kitchen counter, the bathroom tiles and the all-important toilet bowl... There's so much to do that I'm afraid there won't be time to finish it all. But I'm working hard to make sure she comes home to a pristine house.

A Plague on All Your Houses! And Your Little Doggie Too!

You.
Bloody.
Bastards.

So this was what you were planning. You never really considered me for this project at all. You had me jumping hoops for you and all this time, you had your own people already hand-picked and waiting in the bloody wings. Sure: patronize out the has-been-- we don't need him --that's the way the cookie crumbles.

How could I have been so blind? Please, God let me be wrong.

If I'm not wrong, you do know I won't take this lying down...

Personal Log Update

Masaya si Dayunyor

My "Hero-Meter" made the Junior Inquirer today, along with two pictures I shot for my editor. I'm happy about this-- finally some good financial news. Sadly, I can expect to collect the money, oh, sometime in December. A sad fact of life in the world of the commercially utilized written word and drawn image: accounting/money disbursement departments are wont to wait until all checks made out to people like me accumulate. This process literally takes months.

I'm broke, I'm waiting on different firms to even acknowledge the résumés I've sent. What else is new?

Letter to Honey

Rain

It's been raining a lot here of late, so I haven't had the opportunity to properly aerate the bed. As soon as the sky clears, though, I'm taking it to the roof, to watch it while I paint.

I've also found another reason why our place smells so musty: all this time, I'd previously thought it was me, or the clothes we hang on the aluminum bars. We've got a leak in the ceiling in your room and where our wall (with the ceramic butterflies) connects to the ceiling. I'm unsure as to the severity of the leak. Most times we get a trickle, though we did get a lot last night. When you decide to modify this place, it's best to take these into account.

Red

My cash is low. I've never missed the money taken from me by those damned robbers more than now. The good news is that a substantial part of the money I've had to burn up went to attempts at networking and the incidentals involved in my finding a job. As usual, the silent killers great at whittling away reserves are taxi fare and food when you're on the road. I've already consumed all the vittles in the house. I'd planned for you to arrive to a full ref but that's not going to happen unless I raid the pantry in QC.

I've had an interview with ***-*** (not for the comics, for promotions). It went well but it could be weeks, if not a month before somebody calls me up. I'm also chasing two other call center leads. I'm anticipating headaches when they all try to contact me: they're bound to do it at the same time. I'm going to hate regretting the choices I'm bound to make.

Spiders!

I've been chucking out my unwanted clothes but this hasn't done much to pare down my wardrobe into somthing less costly laundry-wise. Ive seen fewer ants on the prowl: the cold season must be forcing them to come out only when they need to. In the meantime, I've seen a rise in the population of spiders-- the thin-legged harmless variety: these may also explain why the ant trails have been so rare.

Funny tradeoff-- more spiders, fewer ants but more webbing contributing to the gunk in this house. One thing the spiders and the ants have in common: they're always so damned opportunistic. I can't leave anything standing on the kitchen counter for five minutes without ants foraging or spiders trying to build a home among the bottles and dishes.

I'm still leery of using bug spray, because of the size of this place. I do not relish the idea of poisoning our food. I do not relish the idea of having "mutant kids" either.

Slowly but surely the loose books are getting covered in plastic. I'm trying to find space for all of them. Methinks we should intsall shelves? There is a lot of leak-free space that can be harnessed for shelves and we do have a Getta drill 'round here after all...

I've got to go. I've still to finish an article (It's already late!) and the graphics on the laptop are acting funny again.

Firing Line and Blindfold

I must be nuts.

The Aquino Timeline I did for the Junior Inquirer magazine-- not really a magazine since its reduction into a weekly insert that goes national every month, thanks to lousy funding-- should be out right now. And it should be pissing off the Marcoses and their constituents in what was once the Solid North big time.

In case this thing turms into a libel suit-- and I wouldn't put it past somebody in these parts-- I got most of my facts from William C. Rempel's Delusions of a Dictator: The Mind of Marcos as Revealed in His Secret Diaries. [(c)1993 William Rempel; Published by Little, Brown And Co., based in Boston (USA), Toronto(Canada), and London(England).] The rest of the data I got from the Inquirer research people. For the record, it was not Malice that motivated me to put this together. I was afraid that fewer and fewer people would remember, and give a hoot.

People died because someone wanted to secure his legacy as "Some Kind of Hero." His hubris blinded him to the fact that he should have performed well or stepped down when he was asked to. He's not the devil; he's us. And "us" is where we should start if we want to fix the country's woes.

If we forget, we condemn more heroes and martyrs to be sacrificed on the altar of free speech, free elections and good government.

Mixed Nuts

People are looking for me at a time when I'm not keen about being found; not in my impotent state.

Granny's illness has apparently worsened; I am debating the merits of visiting her when the only thing I can do is pray for her. Mayhaps I can pray with her. We'll see.

Prospective employers are keen on passing me off to be hired by someone else; a mixed blessing, if there ever was any, a case of the half-empty/half-full dichotomy.

I've got a mother who cannot be anything more than what she is when matters concern her eldest son-- something eldest sons find most inconvenient when they're chomping at the bit to actualize their independence.

Big word, independence. I won't bore you with my complaints about my apparently neverending quest for it.

* * *

In the meantime, I've been staying put at a friend's. My last Tai Chi session on UP grounds weakened me-- I know, it's not supposed to happen-- so that I was easy prey to Sunday's cold, falling water.

Mixed blessing: I get to save on electricity consumed at home while I catch up with my good pal, Dex B. He was also kind enough to provide me with software and intel I can use later... when I'm well enough to really travel.


* * *

Smallville has entrered an interesting phase, as has Angel. Young Lex Luthor and Clark Kent are now officially not friends; Angel's Cordelia Chase has just given birth to a mega-demon bent on ruling the planet through acts of insidious do-goodery.

Mobile Suit Gundam has been showing for quite a while these late weeknights on Animax; Gundam Seed is crawling towards climax and its inevitable conclusion. I am appalled at the cruelty of Gundam's Char Aznable and sad because Flay Ollster won't end up with Gundam Seed's lead, Kira Yamato.

I've bought a copy of SIGLO: Freedom (pat yourselves on the back, Alamat)--set me back 200 bucks-- and am very happy that I've been assigned to review it (or the next issue of SIGLO) for a modest branch of a National Publication.

I've witnessed an improvement in my skill and talents despite my being out of the comics loop for so very, very long.

Everything is good except I'm forced to spend someone else's money for my basic needs.

Answered prayers... one day I'll understand why these answers come to me in bits and pieces, as if through a damned sieve. Meantime I'm going to grin, breathe in the good and exhale the bad, even as I offer my poor thanks to God for what I've already got.

Dear _____________


I'm writing to ask:

1) if you received the colored page sample I sent weeks ago; and
2) if the quality of my work is enough to earn me a spot as colorist, layout artist, et cetera.

I take it from the deafening silence that has been characteristic of our communication that conditions required to hire me have not yet been met. Mayhaps the stars have not properly aligned themselves. Mayhaps the overseer assigned to handle this project has not recovered from his coma-- be assured that I pray constantly for his speedy return to health.

Nevertheless, I remain hopeful that you will recognize my dignity as a human being and provide me an answer that will satisfy. A "yes" or "no" will do very, very well.

Thank you for your time.


Yours,

Dexter Lira
ex editor
ex editorial assistant
ex writer
ex colorist

Survey

"Welcome to the 2004 edition of getting to know your friends and family. What you are supposed to do is copy (not forward) this entire e-mail and paste it onto a new e-mail that you'll send. Change all the answers so they apply to you, then send this to a whole bunch of people including the person who sent it to you. You already know some items about your freinds and family - this might add just a bit more..."

Your name: Dexter Lira

1. What time do you get up?
Anywhere from 0530 to 1200

2. What/Who(?) do you consider your worst enemy?
"The Man"; myself.

3. Gold or silver?
Gold, silver-- does it matter? I'd appreciate a hoard of either.

4. What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Spiderman 2

5. What do you usually spend most of your free time on?
Sleeping, reading, computer games, writing, watching TV

6. What do you have for breakfast?
Recently been craving salads. I eat whatever is on hand, which isn't much.

7. Who would you hate to be stuck in a room with? Generally speaking?
People who remind me by their very existence of how far I have to go professionally, financially or otherwise. It's not personal. The people in question have just been assigned as symbols, extensions of "The Man." I only hate the pain of being compared to them though.

8. What or who inspires?
Nietzsche; Rand; Jesus; Buddha; Anna; Gel; Bonsai; Uma Thurman

9. What is your middle name?
Sebastian

10. Beach, City or Country?
All of the above.

11. Favorite ice cream?
Am partial to strawberry and mango.

12. What do you do to de-stress? Or what do you give yourself as a treat?
Eat; blog; play computer games; write; I still ogle girls when last I checked

13. Favorite color?
Blues and neutrals, specifically blond wood.

14. What kind of car do you drive?
Used to drive a Kia Pride. Someday, I'll drive a RAV 4

15. Favorite sandwich?
SUBWAY BMT! I defy anyone to buy me a more massive, more delicious sandwich.

16. What characteristic do you despise?
In myself? Impotence-- not the sexual kind.

17. Favorite flower?
None, really. Am partial to roses and chrysanthemums as symbols though.

18. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?
Museums around the world. The Paramount Lot. Would like to visit Smithsonian Institute, Hong Kong Science Museum, etc...

19. Scent or smell most pleasant to you?
Food. Glorious, beautiful food.

20. Favorite type of clothing?
Cotton shirts, special fabrics (most look good when draped over me) slacks, sandals, laceless formal shoes.

22. Favorite Day:
Any day in February

23. Red or white wine?
Officially, it's red. But it "turns your teeth purple." I'll go with white.

24. What did you do for your last birthday?
SMSed friends about it. Had various meals with different sets of friends throughout the birthday week.

25. Where were you born?
Children's Medical Center, Q.C.

26. Favorite sport?
Swimming; Soccer; did I mention ogling?

29. Do you speak any other language/dialect besides Pilipino and/or English?
Smatterings. And just smatterings. I treat Japanese and Chinese as if they were dead languages. Why don't I just get lessons and save myself some grief?

30. Coke or Pepsi?
"Tea. Earl gray. Hot."

31. Are you a morning person or a night owl?
Morning person... I stay awake til 3 in the morning too.

32. What is you're shoe size?
(local measuring conventions) 7&1/2 to 8

33. Do you have any pets?
We have a farm at the QC residence: 1 dog, five cats, chickens, 1 myna, and big-ass rats. I'm sure someone is working on getting us a donkey.

Zombie, 2

Run myself ragged again. I hope editor lady appreciates the color sample.