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.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, May 20, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
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 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.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
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.
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.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
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
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
Saturday, December 18, 2004
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?
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?
Thursday, December 16, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, December 03, 2004
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.
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.
Friday, November 26, 2004
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.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
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 |
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. |
Friday, November 19, 2004
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.
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.
Saturday, November 06, 2004
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
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.
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.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
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.
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.
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