Travel and Competitions

PART OF THE duties I commit myself as a human being is to travel the world. This is quite impossible as of today since I'm only one of the average Filipino workers who doesn't earn much. Seeing the world is still a farfetched dream etched in the chambers of my desires. So I opted to tour my beloved country first, even though that already bleeds my pocket.

Soaring through the Hills

Anyway, my friends at the office decided to grab discounted plane tickets for Boracay and Cagayan de Oro. We took advantage of the recent price slash of Cebu Pacific airfares and we'll be off to the white beaches of Bora on September 22-24. My good ol' college buddy Evan will join us in the trip to serve as guide because of his countless times he's been there.

We later on book an earlier flight, sometime in June, to experience the water rafting and caving the City of Golden Smiles boasts. We will also include in the itinerary an overnight visit to the Camiguin Island and certainly a stop-by in Pizza's home in Misamis Oriental.

It is still a long way to go before these scheduled travels but we are already endorsed to the idea of a great getway to the sand dune clinging into everyone's toes.

However, while wailing away through time and day dreaming of the most awaited moment, I spotted a competition in Cebu Pacific Air's inflight magazine Smile. The airline is on its 11th year and they are hosting a photo contest for the best destination photo along with its description.

I'm so much in love with my camera and I immediately thought of joining the contest.

And so, after several days of finding the suitable entry in a haystack of digital pictures embedded in a hard disk drive, I finally was able to select four entries, with one of them shown above. These pictures were taken during our escape to Bohol last December.

I'm greatly convinced that these photos will hit a score with the following categories:

• Composition — 20%
• Artistic merit — 30%
• Originality — 30%
• Execution (exposure, sharpness) — 20%

I was supposed to include the other three here but something inside me wanted to refuse. Aside from the winning photo to be published in the June/July edition of Smile, there are other great prizes at stake here. And I'm sure that cozy plane tickets are part of it. Supposed I win and they found out that I already posted the pictures here, it may be disqualified. Even if it's not declared in the contest that blogged photos are not meritable, I'm still adamant in posting them considering that I emailed the last entry exactly a minute before the deadline expired.

But maybe, I'm just too assuming and already counted the chicks before they even hatched.

Worn Out

I'M QUITE GETTING tired of the look of this blog. The color is green and the header no longer appeals me with the ballpoint so big in the picture. Like a kid who got used to his pencil during class and grown weary through out the school year, he needs to change or upgrade his pencil into a new and better writing instrument. Otherwise, he'll be doodling non-sense in his notepad and drop out from school.

Even the title and the URL address seems to have lost its value and no longer appease the other part of my body where thinking machination (well, sort of) dwells in.

I've been trying to learn new tricks and hacks on how to improve my blogspot. Everything will be re-organized, from the header down to the footer. Side bars will be turn into a two sided sidebars full of new things and links to read about! If you're browsing the net with Firefox, you may have notice the Favicon I've induced to appear on the left side of the page's tab. Thanks to some tools and blogs I've read that helped me absorb new ways on how to beautify blogger which I will share later on.

Maybe tomorrow or the day after, I'll give this blog the facelift it deserves.

Ayang is Leaving

TWO POSTS AGO, I wrote a big metaphor about my recent departure from my old job. My first job for three years, eight months and six days. I was stuck there long enough for me to become a person somewhat similar to a lame duck. So I rather expressed it in a metaphoric way than be literally specific.

Leaving my old job was like finally breaking loose and becoming free: free from a prison-like space where you are pressed down and held to succeed, free to a lot of opportunities, free to the open world that could give me more-than-I-could-handle chances of improving my self and my career.

She will soon be boarding an aircraft for Singapore and join her hubby along with thousands of Filipino engineers who opted to leave for abroad.

When I first came, I never realized I would settle at a gridlock workplace with no dynamics and no improvements. It was my first job and what do you expect from a neophyte, but enthusiasm and eagerness. However, it was not long ago and difficult to know that the work itself is not exciting. I would not think twice of leaving it. It was like, if I were a driver of a PUV, I was given a task of cranking old and dilapidated tricycle in a far away rural community where walking is so much better.

And then another big news suddenly came upon me in a relaxed mood but surprising way. My dear friend and colleague, Ayang, will be finally taking the same exit path. She carries different story lines on how she got into to the place she will soon leave, but I'm pretty sure we bear the same angst and grievances of what we used to be doing.

She will soon be boarding an aircraft for Singapore and join her hubby along with thousands of Filipino engineers who opted to leave for abroad. Before her, there are already a great number of former co-engineers in our company who have gone there, and elsewhere such as Dubai to seek for a "better life".

The trend is evident. More and more Filipinos are leaving this country for a lot of reasons. Worth mentioning is the hopelessness in everything being a Filipino. We may be hearing time and time again news about remittances brought about by the hordes of our countrymen scattered anywhere on earth. However, this is not good news but a sign that there will be a vacuum in terms of labor, workforce, and intelligence.

It is indeed impossible for this country to improve when all the knowledge of our good engineers are consumed for the advancement of other countries. It is an impossibility to wheel our country into the first world level when all our movers have vanished to the promised land. We are forever stranded with this scenario if this migration doesn't stop.

On a lighter note, it is quite sad hearing Ayang’s looming departure, but the thrill on her face was indescribable. I have never seen her beaming with gladness and her cheeks flushed and red. She is indeed happy and we, her housemates in Stockton Belair for countless months, are glad for her new path to take.

Going Bananas Over a Peso

THE WORD IS indeed true: "All for Juan P1 for All"

Today is the last day of the promotional gimmick of Cebu Pacific Airlines. They dropped all their airfares to as low as One Peso to all their local and international destinations. Apparently, this news has shaken the world of those who love traveling and to those who have not rode in an airplane, but think that such offer should not be ignored.

All destinations for just P1, excluding surcharges such as tax (damn! why does the government always have a slice in every pie?) and fuel is such an inviting premise, but lo and behold! Reserving a flight online is equivalent to having your car stuck in EDSA traffic. It seems that every online Filipino has been accessing the site trying to get a ticket for Boracay, Bohol and Palawan. The Oops! page was persistent since day 1 and my fingers have been punishing the mouse by clicking the refresh button almost endlessly.

I immediately informed my trekker friends about the situation, that one ticket goes in every breath they take. But still, we manage to hoist passes for Boracay and Palawan. And finally, I will be able to experience rafting in the waters of Cagayan de Oro, the city of golden friendship.

I'm so glad I'll be seeing the town of JVandep, swim literally in hot waters, eat the best breakfast in a white island on second installment. Camiguin, see you in June!

Changing Channels

I BOUGHT A television set about three and a half years ago. I was able to acquire it after filling up bunch of forms asking details about me and subjecting myself to a series of bespectacled humans asking questions about what I wrote in the forms and if I am fit to own the TV.

Excitement and elation best described what I felt the moment I got hold of the unit and the remote control, with batteries included. It was the first time that I had my personal wants granted. It was the start of my deeper desires' becoming when I can't even afford to buy myself a shirt before I got this tv.

The good thing about this television is that it captured immediately my attention and I never needed to change the channel at first. I was accustomed to watching the same show aired over the same station everyday. If it were a beer, I must have faltered to its pleasure and became addicted. I took the remote control away and placed it inside its box and hid it somewhere else.

Until such time when I noticed that my friends were having their own TVs and seemed happier with what they had. Consider a chocolate bar: I was only consuming a Safari chocolate while they're feasting on Macadamia's. I was becoming envious of their feat but something in me was solid enough to keep my feet on the ground.

I was contented. I still looked for my television and watch the same show. It has provided me pleasure and entertainment when everyone else was having much more bliss. I had to content on Eat Bulaga and laugh with their perennial jokes while their eyes were glued on cable and satellite broadcast watching live NBA or the Oscars.

Later on I found out, that my TV was beginning to sound boring and almost lifeless. Soon, it has started to crank a bit slower than usual. I spend a couple of minutes just to turn it on and a handful of seconds before images are shown.

That's when I started to hate my tv.

Everyday, same show and same actors were playing the same stupid scripts every now and then. As if they were a living testimony of how insulting my television was. It wasn't a HD tv, it was too small and too heavy to carry around the house. It was a burden that keeps on getting heavy by the tick of the clock.

So I decided to rid of it, no matter how and no matter what it cost. It took me more than a year to realize that this television is hard to let go as there are too many brand new TVs sprouting on the market but pays a high price to gain. I could lose my arm, my limb and my leg, before I could even lay my eyes on the smooth edges and fine buttons. It was a struggle similar to how squail would try on getting out of the basin before being cooked and served for lunch.

I was feeling hopeless. Day by day I ask myself, will I be fed with this same show for the rest of my life? With the same Tito, Vic and Joey doing their antics except for the fact that they are not the real Tito Vic and Joey but a pseudo representation of Erap, Saddam and Osama Bin Laden? I pray that one day God will move heaven and earth and save me from this inner demolition.

Then all of a sudden, a week before Christmas time of 2006, I stumbled upon a box that surprisingly appeared above my head. I was adamant in opening the laces that had covered this box but my curiosity is much powerful. I opened it deliberately and found inside, still inside its seal and left untouched, the remote control.

I thought I lost it and never even bothered to look for it. I was given one chance to switch my channel to a far greater station and I wasted no time in pressing the keys.

Killer Candle and the Stupid Nurse

SHE WAS PRAYING on her usual hours of meditation and silence with God inside her room. She stepped outside and casually spoke with one of her daughters, who practically been living beside her house after all her other sons and daughters setup their own homes a few meters away to the amianan or bagatan, while others have fled to other far away places where they brought up their own families. Suddenly she remembered leaving the altar with the candle still lighting the room.

At a very old age of 86 and known to her kin as Mami Bakèt, she went back up stairs to whisk it off. Her daughter, Lumeng was unmindful of the what will be happening in the next few minutes and didn't bother to help her mother. Because she's been praying with a candle burning beside the altar since time immemorial. Minutes later, she was struggling to put out the fire from torching her that started with her blouse up to her old curly hair. Lumeng's youngest son JR quickly came to the rescue when she managed to got out of the house. It was all too late.

She had to absorb third degree burns that is pitiful to ones eyes. Her face suffered most with indescribable burns down to her upper body skin.

Immediately, they took her to the nearest hospital somewhere in Guimba in Nueva Ecija, and was confined there for several days. The absence of adequate hospital resources and technologically advance equipment has made the situation worst. The wounds were not healing.

The elders decided to transfer Mami Bakèt to PGH with full of hope that she will recover from the inevitable demise. However, her body began to succumb to the suffering. Eventually, she went to a state of coma that dwindled all hopes and fears of all the persons that have love her dearly, down to her last apo sa talampakan.

She died a few hours after because of the in-charge nurse's inability to monitor the instruments that's been keeping her alive. That's why, I can't imagine what would happen if all our good nurses in this country have fled to the US or to some other place that will provide them with a good paying job. It was explained that the food (it was milk) being injected to her has penetrated the lungs, thus, causing her misfortune on the same day she was born.

The last drop of hope has finally evaporated and tears began to fall.

This is the story of how Mami Baket died, my grandmother on the father side, who was still strong and kicking despite her age. Unfortunately, she took a tragic way of saying goodbye.

Endless Discontent

PEOPLE ALWAYS HAVE a bad word about the weather.

They always complain about the climate's inconsistencies, probably since the day they were born. I'm pretty sure infants would cry out loud when they couldn't stand the heat, or cold, manifesting their discomfort. From sun-up until darkness roam, from first day up to the 365th of the calendar, people have always said something in a form of recommendations and even curses, as to why the weather is so atrociously hot, and why it is so blistering cold. If ever these complaints are put together on paper and piled in one location, we would have warehouses constructed that could fit the entire Laguna Technopark, multiplied by three.

Last night, and several evenings before, I thought I was somewhere in between Sagada, Mountain Province and Baguio City. It was like someone has turned on a gigantic air conditioning unit in a usually hot trodden place. The wind was whistling as if it just came out of the freezer, and it was whistling hard, it chills even the most hidden and obscure part of your body.

One of my close associates has been openly vocal against the sudden drop in the temperature that lurks the entire Laguna atmosphere and most probably, the entire Luzon. She was whimpering about her right arm's muscle pain and accused the weather as the culprit behind her agony. Another was wailing upon hearing a news story on boob tube apropos of the hollywood celebrities' move to heighten global warming and bring about consciousness and alarm to everyone. It was quite ironic of a news story relating global warming delivered on a time when all the busy streets has suddenly turned empty because people were hiding behind the comfort of their shelters to avoid the biting cold.

Brad Pitt has never been this correct, or Nicole Kidman, George Clooney and the rest of the Tinseltown's. The cold temperature grappling the city is accurately associated with Earth's inevitable becoming of an oven. The icebergs in the regions where they massively exist are gradually melting, effecting the cold stream of winds in the tropics such as the Philippines. In the summer, when the sun is at its peak, it will ultimately bring shrieks to skin burns and rise in the sales of SPF 60 or 100 sun-screen lotion.

If we don't act now, we might not witness the era of Star Wars vision because we were returned back to ice age of The Day After Tomorrow. Sea level rises because the icebergs are melting, and if it will not stop, I guess Mount Everest will only be the piece of land remaining visible. I can't imagine how to put the more than 6.5 billion people there!

What we can probably do in our own perspective is stop smoking. Instead of driving your own car (err, I don't have my own car) use the public transport. If we all ride on the jeeps and buses, we will simultaneously save on gas and contribute to the deduction of CO2 emission, the number 1 rascal of ozone layer depletion. Save every bit of electricity in the house, turn off that light in the rest room, please! Save everything! Use paper bags instead of plastic. And you may also plant a tree today, it will add oxygen to the air.

Don't fret if the cold bites you, at least you are rid of the sight of a shirtless unemployed neighbor.

Ironic Gratitude

I CAUGHT ON Q-tv news last night Ely being interviewed three weeks after his near-death excursion. It was reported though that he had undergone instead of two, but three angioplasty, to revive him from his almost fall out.

I am very much alive... and kicking... and making music
maraming salamat po sa lahat ng sumuporta...
said Ely who was sporting black framed eye glasses and had his fly-away hair ironed out. A refreshed Ely Buendia face back in his prime was shown walking with a happy face clear of any stresses, except that he's obviously lost some weight due to his stricter-than-your-strict-teacher diet and he was showing off his white macbook during the shoot.

His comments and the way he carried himself was so typical Ely of the Eraserheads. There is now a vivid sign that Pupil has a far way to go.

Long live Ely and his music.

English Zero

I WROTE A few years back in our college student paper, The Solution, about the incompetence of fellow engineering students when it comes to speaking the English language. One of the things that I emphasized at the time was to realize that a sophomore, who was sitting three desks behind me in a Psychology class, didn’t comprehend nor pronounce properly simple words such as ambiguity, transmission, ecology, and the list went on and on. I used it as premise in questioning the quality of education that these students were getting since they passed high school, and was admitted to college and close enough to be graduating as full pledged engineers. I did receive a handful of comments with regards to the article but nonetheless, it had stir less of an issue to be talked about like gossip that spreads like wild fire, and had a little concern to the students. I guised myself, as if they’d completely fail to understand what I wrote about.

Interestingly, the college put up a measure to contain the degrading English comprehension of its students. It required all freshmen who fails English entrance exams to take English 0 (zero) as a prerequisite to enrolling English 1 and 2 for two semesters. However, it turned out as a waste of time because the school had eventually appraised all students to Speech Class the following year with full disregard of their measure in improving English proficiency among the students.

Fast forward to 2007.

Almost everyone that I speak to, either casual or formal, tend to blabber in bilingual fashion. They speak in dual mode, a mesh of the English and Tagalog, or Taglish if there is such a word registered in the dictionary. I could barely find one person who can speak straight English nor straight Tagalog these days. If they do, they will squeeze their neurons finding suitable Tagalog equivalent for “develop” or “print”. Or to translate into English the interrogative sentence “Pang ilang pangulo ng Pilipinas si Erap?”. Even on the television or radio, I could have my thumb bleed pressing the remote controller and search for a local station who patronizes only one medium of expression.

I personally thought that only the colegialas and coños were inflicted with these defect in our communication but I am surprised that it has become the standard by which we expressed ourselves, as a person and as a nation. Kasi we understand each other naman eh, di ba.

Internationaly, our country has been known as one of the best english speakers in the world third only to the Americans and English people. That is why over the past few years, Koreans have invaded our country without us realizing it. We let them enroll in our schools just so they could learn english from us and eventually be able to improve their proficiency. They are stealing the knowledge which we have acquired since the time of World War II as history supposes to tell it.

As a result, we end up with a language similar to a tangled yarn and fishing line, one without an identity that we can fully take pride about. And I guess cell phones and text messaging is partly to be blamed for this grammar fault.

It reminds me of Jose Rizal, our national hero’s famous words: (gee, I almost forgot we have a national hero):

Ang ‘di marunong magmahal sa sariling wika,
Ay daig pa ang amoy ng mabahong isda.

Pareng Jose must have been turning into his grave.

Ely Buendia

IT WAS A usual afternoon in the gymnasium when we hit the rest room and the showers after our PE classes. Together with my male classmates, we secured our own comfort zones to wash ourselves after a grueling two hour sessions in the gym. Some went straight into a cubicle, only heaven knows whether they peed or they did something extraordinary there. Several others were already shirtless washing themselves with plain tap water coming out of the faucet. I was the first to enter the restroom and little did I know that I will come across a thing that will change my perspective about one of the few things in life that I love very dearly – music.

It was a cassette. An audio tape that can only be played with a cassette player that seems to be nearing extinction nowadays due to the advances of technology following the trend that was the vinyl record. The tape was left saddled and bare in the bathroom tiles just beneath the door of one of the lavatories. There was no album cover, just the tape inside its case.

Then I read the words embedded in its being. Some were weird enough for others to immediately throw it in the garbage as if it contains material of explicit in nature like Punk Zappa, Punk Zappa Three, No Royalty Album Filler #9, Alkohol, Bato, Insomnya and Butterscotch. But the titles such as Alapaap, Magasin, Kailan, Sa Wakas and With A Smile had immediately convinced me to keep the tape rather than look helplessly for whom it belonged. It was the Circus album and when I got home, I instantly played it, turned the volume up and quickly got carried away with its original lyrics and tunes. My grandmother almost hit me when she heard the Butterscotch screeched into its ending but I vanished from her path to escape the beating.

Nevertheless, it was a thrilling experience to have learned that such music existed when all that I’ve been hearing is the music of my great dad. I guess I inherited his being a music lover since he also used to be collecting cassette tapes, however, only that of international fame. But listening to Circus brought me new ideas like the story of Jay in Hey, Jay who is a gay and have a lot of ordeal to face the society. Or Minsan, the story of Ely, Buddy, Markus, and Raymund way back in UP days that became the Eraserheads eternalized in a song.

This had happened 11 years ago during my sophomore as a high school. And it was about how I’ve learned entirely about the Eraserheads that revolutionized the way I know about music.

I re-attempted to study how to make music using the guitar, three years after I’d learned my first guitar chords. It was an inspiration from my eldest brother and the only song I can play at that time is What’s Up. I was still in fifth grade then and my fingers were still small and hard on pressing the frets of a locally fabricated guitar and so I thought I quitted. The Eraserheads have spawned a deeper inspiration and even a dream to have my own band, my own compositions and my own music. (Which still remains to be dream)

I saved more than a week of allowance just to own a copy of their most successful album that came after Circus, the Cutterpillow. It got to the point that I have to content on cheap banana ques and buko juice sold in front of the school every recess to fulfill my mission of earning 120 pesos to buy their tape. It’s just sad to realize that I have lost the tape after listening to it almost everyday.

I have been fond of the band and their music since then and it is amazing that a lot of people of my age still feels the same way. Their time is monumental and that’s what separates us from the youngsters of today whose listening pleasures has been served with a lot of so and so bands. Trying hard music makers whose only hits are revivals after revivals, they missed the time when all you needed to hear in a rock show is the E-heads and your evening will be completed as if you’d had the best you're ready to die.

That is why it is too shocking to hear the news about Ely being stricken during a gig somewhere in Laguna several days ago. He was diagnosed as having his main veins in the heart blocked preventing blood from circulating throughout his body. The blockage was so severe that the first vein is totally clogged while the other one is 95% closed. With this situation, an angioplasty was necessary and twice conducted, which can be described as injecting a material that will clear out the clog and restore normal blood flow.

A lot has been said and written when this occurred even after several days since, including me. I am a great fan and it is far from unthinkable if ever he is to passed away. No! He can’t die, not yet as the boy from smallville succinctly puts it. He must only succumb three ways: an old man like George Harrison or James Brown, assassination ala John Lennon or shot himself in the head Kurt Cobain way, said another blogger.

I even learned Superproxy was a song about the Eraserheads' first encounter of the internet with Francis Magalona describing it when Ely was far from being conscious. Ely is not even voted yet for Hall of Fame and here comes the near chance for him to die and become a legend.

It is very surprising that I have the same matter of life and death experience with Ely. The difference is of course colossal ranging from his being an accomplished musician to his being a loving father to his son, Eon. He is 36 years old when he had to realize that eating meat and those packed with bad ol’ cholesterol could kill, I was about 23 when I had the same.

Even if reuniting Eraserheads is still a fiction (and I guess it will remain that way), I agree that Ely is too young to say goodbye. He is still left with an assignment to attain, a mission to save us all from the realms of revivals and one hit wonders.

Tax

I NEVER THOUGHT I would be fooled by someone who writes numbers on a piece of paper everyday to anyone who wish to get him or herself a sedula.

Early this day, I tasked myself to get a student permit and restart my archaic driving lessons that my uncle, who was taken back home from the land with milk and honey, had taught me. And so I heard that getting a student driver's permit in Philippine soil necessitates a sedula or community tax certificate issued locally in a barangay hall, or more placidly, in municipal hall where a residing corrupt mayor has a greater probability than being promoted in the next appraisal.

That is why I prepped up myself for a long haul in the streets, aside from being literally ignorant of the location of the LTO branch in Angeles City.

With so much complacency and certainty with acquiring the sedula, I didn't asked my brother who recently got his license the other day after almost a year of waiting, if it really is required in the application. I went straight to the barangay hall of a nearby village-- Lourdes Sur East, just a few steps to where I attended elementary-- and aimed for the personnel in charge in filling up the empty fields of a sedula form. The room wasn't empty, in fact, it was embraced by a couple of old folks trading stories in Kapampangan which I lost interest at the very sight of them. I took ownership of a monobloc and began throwing questions to the lady who was very busy with her ballpen.

Her table was swamped with a vintage typewriter and a plastic red basin full of piece of papers cut to small rectangles. She immediately pointed out to write my full name, and details such as address, height and weight. I quickly complied at the sudden turn of an oscillating wall fan that keeps the room a bit humid. I waited a few more minutes since it appears that the old folks somewhere near me actually had the same reason why I was there. It's fascinating to see that one man took a pile of sedulas and sped off without taking out a single coin in his pocket. Or he may have already paid even before I stepped in.

The lady would soon saved me from an avalanche of boredom, when she asked for my kind of work. This is where the part when my mind suddenly went on vacation.

I felt a sudden rush of blood on my lips as it was supposed to be moving and voicing out words. I responded the one word that describes my day job, engineer po ma'am.

She followed by asking about my pay amount and immediately opened her drawers as if her left hands just clinged onto her pistol and on the verge of shooting me right in between the eyes. But instead of a gun, she let out her calculator and punched away the numeric keypads calculating the amount of corruption money, err, tax I was about to pay.

One hundred eighty five pesos! said the lady.

It was then that my brain was suddenly awakened like a splash of cold water was poured incessantly onto my face waking me up from a deep sleep. If it was on a normal state, I would mention that I was an unemployed bum and is yet to become a useful citizen who pays taxes. The result would entail a 5-peso fee and avoid a whopping 185 pesos or more.

The guy next to me who seemed to be dressed in his usual working clothes like that of my old teacher in economics class way back in high school, with gray polyester-made polo embroidered with a lace rectangular outline design in the middle, black wool straight pants and black shoes, tried to outwit the lady and avoid a possible similar mishap. When asked about the pay, he sounded tacit and expressionless. He managed to described himself as a minimum wage earner with 200 pesos as his daily salary. 75 pesos was his fee.

I let go of the frustration that quickly rose as it was my fault for letting it happen, I wasn't thinking at all. I am already paying so much taxes to this government with almost 20% of my salary going into the state's coffers or more apt, pork barrels and bribes, which is supposed to be funneled into giving school children new books or desks, or help establish a new government sector or department that is so much better in a lot of terms than the Pagasa to prevent typhoons in wreaking havoc to our countrymen as such illustrated by Reming and Milenio. The taxes that we pay is so much that everything you buy or pay for is coated with a 12% value added tax.

Just imagine, if I am receiving a salary of 5000 per payday, 1000 is already cut before I even had the chance to get hold of my pay. With a measly 4000 remaining, I could calculate that the total amount I will really enjoy is only 3571.

It saddens me whenever I imagine that my hard earned money will only be used up in paying for the gasoline of some congressman's vehicle, or it will only be added to pay the bill of their buffet lunch or dinner. It is something that I never want or like to happen and I have no option but obey and sadly, pay.

The thing that ignited the spark into a complete burning fire is when I realize later the day that sedula is not even on the list of the identification documents that may be presented for the application of student driver's permit. You know what I did? I just shrug it off and laugh on my way home.

The Debut

THE STORMY RAIN brought by Seniang was non-stop as if telling me to thwart the upcoming musical presentation, and go home instead and sleep the rest of the day.
But our visions were unfazed and Blue Beans gang, which was supposedly named as Six Sigma band, hurdled the wet highways and the very cold morning breeze to show up for the sound check and performed before a crowd of an estimated 3000+ screaming operators. I'm not sure if they were still yelling after we unplugged from the stage.
The band is composed of Oni (vocals, guitar) and Kris D (lead guitar and the ultimate driver), Emmar (percussions) and myself (bass and vocals).
The video was courtesy of my main man Glenn M and his S3-IS baby shooting from somewhere in the bleachers.
Go and hit the play button.

Storm's Coming

WEATHER FORECAST IS usually placed at the most obscure location of newspapers, or it is the last report shown on a news broadcast after an exhaustive delivery of other big news, and sometimes these are just flash bulletins on radio stations. Since the number of ways to deliver information such as emails, SMS, podcasts, live feeds, etc has never stop to evolve, the looming catastrophe that the storm may cause, based entirely on the strength of typhoon Durian, nicknamed Reming, has suddenly brought new chills to be scared about. A Bohol trip scheduled this weeked seems to be shakened. While wondering if we need to abort the flight or go on with it and pray for a safe plane travel, I chanced upon this drawing that immediately took my breath away.

Pacquiao for President

A CHILD AND his 58 year old father was about to have a conversation in front of the tv. The girl was busy playing her doll, crosslegged and her butt flat on the cement floor while her papa was sitting pretty on the couch and with a beer on his left hand and the remote control on his right. He turn on the tv, picked the number 2 and quickly threw away the remote. A loud cheer coming from both sides of the speakers suddenly filled the once silent room and turned it into a scene like you were in a cockpit arena.
The father’s sullen face and cold eyes were instantly glued on the tv set when the lady announcer in the voice of Diane Castillejo began chattering away her well crafted analysis of the upcoming bout, impromptu style. Dubbed as one of the greatest trilogy in boxing history, dear papa must not miss one bit of a punch thrown and landed as if it were the last fight he would witness.
At this time, the daughter seemed to have notice his papa’s overwhelming attention on the show
Papa, what are you watching?
It’s Manny and Erik on tv. They’ll fight each other to find out who’s the greatest.
Why do they need to fight? Isn’t it fighting is bad?, said the little daughter while rearing her doll between her arms as if it were a baby
The father was stunned upon hearing her child’s inquiry. He raised his arm, reached for his head and scratch it like suddenly an army of lice trooped on top of his head. He managed to utter a few words and said, you know my child, in life we face everyday our own battles to fight. We struggle to live to survive this cruel world. Just like Manny, he faces his battle with Erik to inspire us Filipinos that anyone can be great by following his dreams.
I can’t understand, papa, cried the daughter.
Soon you will, my child, soon you will…

Three days after Erik folded up and bowed to the ferocity of Pacquiao’s punches, I am still mesmerized whenever I hear people talk about the fight that united this country for at least three rounds of 3-minute boxing.
I began to be a boxing fan way back when George Foreman was already an ageing slugger that used to rule the four corners of the ring. Then I’ve learned of other great fighters such as Ali, Frazier, Duran, Sugar Ray, Iron Mike, and many others that has been subjects of endless story -telling of my elder relatives coupled with beer and pinapaitang kambing.
From then on, I was always thrilled whenever an underdog wins a boxing match. It was simply because of the distinct story behind the boxer's life. I am enthralled whenever I learn how they managed their way to reach such tremendous level of celebration and victory. As one writer had put it, a boxer's life is a story that portrays a picture of poverty and the will to survive.
In this blog, I expressed my prediction that El Terible would win the match not only as fitting ending for his career, but as the fighter with the spirit of infinite proportions. And it seemed the case had been too strong for the spirit but to weak for the body to fulfill. Morales was decked and kissed the canvass in the third round.
Ultimately, it had brought our nation to its wildest roars and cheers. Once again, for at least a few hours of a sunday, the street were free from crimes, and people of all sorts are glued on screens to cheer for their champion. My good friend Glenn M has now his nerves on what could probably happen after Pacquiao's victory.
Pacquiao for President? It was more of a statement rather an inquiry.

Recto

THE AMBIANCE WAS cool resemblant that of the breeze of December. The interior was spacious and I need not tackle anyone from getting in between the electropneumatic doors. It was a smooth and sound experience riding the third train built for mega manila. Maybe because the timing was perfect and the scene of rushing people to get from point A to point B is not yet playing. I unboarded LRT2 in Recto station when I decided that I have my 1-year expired electrical engineering license renewed, and to take the words that the green form I used, I re-registered it in the Commision that also handled the recently tainted nursing board exams.
The train station at Recto is a far cry from its predecessors, MRT and LRT1. It boasts a wide platform that could fit 25 NBA sized basketball courts, if placed together. The platform area is peaceful and I just thought that this was not the same Recto I got accustomed to 4 years since, when I reviewed for the September 2002 board exams.
And I was totally wrong!
I made up my mind that instead of riding one of the jeepneys to get my butt to PRC, I'll walk the streets of Morayta, Recto and Gastambide to witness a great view of Isetann, the mall where i watched the blurrest version of Reign of Fire and made me think that watching film makes you dizzy, Far Eastern University, and the thousands of books being sold at wherever you point your sight.
When I passed a series of pads and stores selling everything from books to rubber stamps, one guy tried to capture my attention after another. Then someone suddenly put his hands on my shoulder as if he was my long lost brother from the third dimension, or I just immediately had a inaanak and a kumpadre. They all wanted to talk and lure me to buy their stuff. Only here will you find the possibility of getting a MBA diploma in Ateneo de Manila University, or a mimic transcript of records for graduating Metallurgical Engineering in UP. The options are infinite. They can even produce copies of birth certificate and near-authentic PRC IDs.
My sudden kumprade brought chills to my nape and I said that I'll come back later just to woo him away. I doubled my walking speed when he turned his back.
After 4 years of missing the place, the sidewalks of PRC building was different. Back then, vendors used to sell pirated books and reviewers, and sometimes newspaper clippings for the results of recent boards. Technology has its face turned for this money makers and suddenly, these same ambulant sellers are now bargaining reviewers in digital format. They are selling CD that will help anyone review for almost all exams even NCLEX, and TOEFL. I couldn't help but think that these guys even surpassed the PRC itself in terms upgrading their services.
The only difference that I saw inside PRC from the time I applied for examination is the air I breathed in. This time, it was more polluted than it already used to be. It bears the same old system and technology because they still require the same passport size photo with full name tag on it, instead of putting up its own digital cameras to photograph every professional's face. The same lame lines of people especially those who are applying for new registration and examinations. That's what I get upon paying 550 pesos re-registration fee, 100 pesos for one year lag and a 60 peso surcharge.
I am going straight home and I wished I wouldn't cross path with my kumpadre.

Trip to Quiapo

WHILE POKING AROUND a collection of piled newspapers, bags full of unknown things, empty carton boxes, hamper full of dirty clothes, these and among other stuff that compose the collection of what I call personal property, I realized the increase in the number of books I’ve been keeping in my storage. If these are piled up on top of each other, it could stand to level the height of a 1997 Honda Civic.

The books are mostly comprised of novels but a few serious paperbacks have partly consumed its space. One of them, Trip to Quiapo authored by Ricky Lee that I stashed from a certain library, has landed on my fingertips while dusting off the place on a summer hot day in November. The book teaches about script writing for movies. And as far as I remember, I read that book about seven or eight years ago. Up until now, I haven’t finished the book nor started to read it again.

Surprisingly, a single sheet of yellow paper is kept somewhere in between the pages. For years, it was untouched and its original yellow color has been stained and appeared rusty and washed. But the writing on the paper suddenly dodged me back to the day I tried to write a script after being indulged with the learnings and teachings of the book.

The story was made in one sitting. I don’t have a computer at that time and never got back to pen the stories’ ending.

Facing Defeat

MANNY PACQUIAO IS yet to face the monumental battle of his boxing career. On Sunday, November 19, he will slug it out on a championship fight against the highly acclaimed Erik Morales, now on its third edition.
In their first meeting, Pacquiao shamelessly vowed to Morales in a unanimous decision where blood streamed from his face like a river. I almost cried watching that fight and said to myself, his career is over. Over just like the sound of IT'S OVER in Playstation's Fight Night when a game ends. Done. Zip. Through. Finished.
Little did the rest of the world know that it had spawned a great spirit inside Manny that catapulted him into a different zone of vengeance. A rematch was immediately agreed upon and during this time, Pacquiao nicknamed the “Pacman”, stole away the victory with a convincing win by knocking down Erik on the 11th round. It was a left hook that fell on the right side of Erik’s cheeks while wading his head left and right trying to avoid power packed punches. It took Erik down into the canvass for the first time ever since he learned that boxing is life itself.
That victory has propelled Manny to the highest imaginable level of fame in this celebrity-strucked country. His convincing win against El Terrible gave him the passport to sing and release a music CD which were sold out minutes after he won the second fight. It awarded him not only millions of dollars from Top Rank but also a galore of tv commercials, paid endorsements and even the “champion for life” medal by GMA. It gave him the right to sing for you, extremely and magically in front of your tv sets. And he even tried to convince everyone how sour datu pute tastes like.
A night ago, my main-man friend Markus asked me who I think would win in the Grand Finale. Trying to sound with less concern, my mouth went wide open and instantly announced the name Erik. He followed with a question, "is it because Morales will beat Pacquiao, or I just don't like Manny to win?" I bluffed but managed to utter a reasonable intervention. Morales is the underdog, and the one that is very hungry to win. The only similar reason I found in the papers, newsfeeds and blogs that Erik keeps on saying is that he's sole purpose is to win, plain and simple, and get back his shattered credibility. No media highlights, no press releases, not even the money, simply win and beat Manny for himself. It is like putting yourself in a forbidden island and the only way for you to survive is by walking barefooted in sand dune under a scorching sun. And since you don't want to die, you'll used up all your life's energy to get back home.
On the contrary, of course I wanted Manny to win. But I can no longer see the same Pacquiao I've seen in his last two fights against El Terible. And his match versus Larios was a dud! I only learned how to hate Channel 2 more because of the infinite commercials in between the rounds.
I know that siding against Manny Pacquiao is going against millions of Filipinos. But does that make me non-patriotic? Certainly not. The Filipino life is a life of struggle and endless search, and inspirations such as Pacquiao's life in the boxing ring makes us proud and believe that there is indeed light at the end of our own tunnels.
If El Terible defeats Pacman, (which I think he will) some will win with it, while the majority will weep and cry. I'm sure Manny will just shrug it off and fight another day. I have my own battles to fight and whenever I lose, I also feel the same way.

Happy Birthday Blog

THIS MORNING, I woke up and felt that something inside me wanted to come out. As if I've just swallowed a bettle unwillingly, and it was struggling hard to get out of my stomach. I bathed and figure that it was something else. A set of thoughts inside my chest has incubated and it was beginning to grow its legs and beak, ready to break out from its shell just like a new born eaglets was spawning from the nest.

While staring at the mirror, I found another traces of one year old stress have been painted on my face. A couple of uban or white hair strands has suddenly sprouted from my head up front like a lost weed in the midst of green bermudas.

I just realized, like suddenly a glowing yellow incandescent bulb had appeared above my head, that I've been blogging already for a year.

Time really runs so fast, I almost missed it. Wow! I can't even believe it myself.

It seemed like it was just yesterday when I started putting into words, thoughts that came and went inside my head. Like a sponge doing the dishes after a party, it absorbed ideas, concepts, stories, both pleasant and unpleasant.

It has become a battleground. Everyday, I fight and struggle to survive with this thing called "life" and it has been an area where I could draw my sword and whip every enemy in thoughts and in words!

When I was totally bored, it didn't faze but instead, it gave me an outlet to express my frustration and cool.

I even wrote something about nightmares and dreams, but I think the story was half restored since I can't remember entirely the sequence of the dream.

My first post was about spending super extra time working and missing a lot of things, with friends, family and self. From then on, I made a pact. I can only live once in this world and I say I will never again dispose my entire time working.

So I blog, and blog, and found myself reeling under the blistering sun watching and agonizing with someone being crucified, literally, eating with delectable food, and the best fish and sisig!, playing basketball, dancing in the storm and being bitten by a dog.

It has been a great jumpstart for my passion of writing, I even created several other blogs that seemed to look better if they have their own site to be seen on. I made retrato ni popoy to showcase all the insights and great scenes captured between the lens and viewfinder of the camera. Serious essays and thoughts that need a separate page to be viewed on, The J Journal was fabricated with the right amount of strings and needles to sew the articles, that I wrote with intense focus, to be mended piece by piece. I even began an attempt to publish a novel.

Writing is just a part of the whole communication process. It is useless if no one reads what I wrote, or no one realizes the thought I've been consciously conveying. I guess attracting a great number of readers and have a constant virtual audience that are open in leaving comments in this space, is as difficult as capturing flies buzzing around your food with only a pair of chopsticks at hand.

This post would be the thirty-third edition for this blog, and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't be the last. Happy birthday blog!

When Dog Bites

IT WAS A sunny morning when a dark furred german shepherd named Viper and a gullible maid went out for a walk. They were few meters away from their home when suddenly a group of fangs fell in love with a right lower limb. It was as if the teeth just discovered how to munch a strangers' foot for the first time when it willfully bit into the pants. The dog perpetrator must have seen a walking luscious beef so it buried its fangs right into the target.
The fangs belong to Viper and the right lower limb was mine.
I must have waken up at the wrong side of my futon. Part of my daily routine is to walk a couple of blocks to join Pizza before heading towards HICAP. Having done this a thousand times, I've never met a major accident nor simpy trip over a stair. It was this one fateful day that my daily routine would entirely be disturbed.
Marla was the maid and she came all over from Cebu. She is already on her eight month serving his boss domestic needs prior to yesterday. I've learned these details when I decided to take off from work and have myself checked with humans in white robes, or sometimes called doctors. I was stormed with warnings and scary thoughts of getting infected with a deadly rabies and after several years just die a sudden death. Thanks to my dear colleagues for they catapulted me to have myself immediately vaccinated.
The plan was to go to fortmed clinic and seek an advice of a doctor. But before having myself logged into the registry, the nurses quickly pushed me to go into a certain RITM.
"RITM who?," I ask the nurse I was conversing with. She blinked and sighed a deep empy breath while uttering the same question. She sought help from several other nurses lurking around but they weren't able to save her from an ocean of embarassment.
RITM stands for Research Institute for Tropical Medicine. As the name suggests, it is the branch of the government that seeks cures for different kinds of tropical diseases resulting from venomous animal bites such as cats, snakes, dogs, etc. I was too dumb to realize that such institution exists. Thanks to Viper, I gained an additional Wikipedia knowledge into my brain.
I went back to the house where the dog sleeps. Marla was the only person present when I came. Her face was innocent and suggested that I rub it with vinegar and garlic to cleanse the bruise and wash away the rabies. I couldn't laugh at her supposed witty comments under a blistering 11 AM sun, so I am left with an option to call his boss and tell the whole damn story.
The dog was regularly checked up and vaccinated, and so the owner attested. Nothing to fear, nothing to worry about. He added that he would willingly take me to the dog clinic where Viper used to get shots. But my position was in deep pit and I am not taking any chance at all. I was just bitten by a dog and it caused me a lot.
My day was shattered. I was forced to go undertime which caused me half a day's pay. My phone bill will soon skyrocket causing me additional burden due to calls I had made here and there. I painstakingly had to absorb the heat of the sun, rode in one of those God forsaken tricycles streaming in the hell-like-highways. And after agreeing with the nurses financial conditions, my torso, shoulders and skin were tortured with painful injections. Now I have to eagerly convince myself that I need to flush antibiotics into my stomach thrice a day.
Now tell me what have I done wrong to have all these occured to me?
Tomorrow, I will read my horoscope.

Call Center

How does a call center located in the jungles of Makati sound to you? Very okay I guess. Right at the heart of the business capital.

How does a call center situated in the Mall of Asia appeal to you? Quite exciting. You'll have the nth chances of watching Superman Returns in iMax
format.

How does a call center in Baguio City, Clark, or any other busy districts elsewhere excites your senses? Hmmm. Not bad maybe.

Just one more.

How does a call center spaced in a house from little less known and quiet residential village called Belair appear to your taste? By now, instinct should utter a loud gasp of hollow guess coupled with an inch of wondering what on earth is it doing there.

I've got several friends who works in that booming industry with a great deal of pay as most of them chided. Some were engineering graduates and licensed too, to make it more profound. While others have finished accountancy and business management courses whose weapon of survival is their capacity to speak fluent english dressed in a foreign accent, that if you hear them speak you would thought it was someone born in London. When I was still unemployed, I tried submitting my resume to a very popular call center but failed to convince the interviewer of my ability to express myself well and I ended up being a factory worker.

As it turned out, these call centers capitalized on agents a.k.a. customer care representatives a.k.a. modern day telephone operators on their ability to speak the universal language. They speak in behalf of companies for customers with concerns to their products or services, but I guess that is another topic for a future post.

They have somewhat turned into zombies who are always awake when the world is sleeping. If they haven't learned the word independence yet, they described themselves as boarders in their own houses where chance upon talking with their parents before they lay onto their matress in the morning or head for work in the eve.

But the issue here is a call center amidst a suburb like a lost command of an infantry batallion making forming its own army in the forest of the wilderness. Whenever i strut along Stockton street, I often times grab an opportunity to glimpse to this call center during its pristine time. I
witnessed the house reformation, it used to be one of the abandoned units where only tall grasses dwell.

One fine morning, I walked along the same path leading to my own sanctuary. Suddenly, a loud conversation was looming and succeeded in capturing my attention. I thought somebody was at cold war after an evening of downpour and the pavement still have traces of moisture. The loud voice almost failed to die down like that of a stream of water flowing down the river bed. He was wearing boxers and a polo and I think it was the boss with a low baritone voice trying to mimick an English accent.

Sooner, several people came and filled the call center converted house like flies rummaging over a piece of lefover cheese cake. I guess these are the operators and one day they busied themselves outside the house group into two. They appeared to be given the task of improving their speeches by blabbering with one another as if they were speaking with a customer. I
witnessed this while holding a book about the memoirs of a geisha named Sayuri and acted reading the book as if I was ignoring the things that they do.

I just wonder how do they satisfy their craving for food at the most unimaginable wee hours of the morning since they are literally very far from 7-11, neither a sari-sari store nearby would open at that time. And I can't think of what the adjacent neighbors reaction, since most people who chose to live there required a quiet community and never wished to be disturbed particularly at night.