Kitty Litter
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
"Slumbook" Entry 1
Slumbook Entry: Who Is Your Crush (or, To All The Men I’ve Loved Before)
Haven’t done a “slumbook” entry in some time, so here’s a funny one: “Who is your crush?”
If you think I’m going to talk about real men here, no way! That wouldn’t be fun, and I might get sued by the exes I’ve got on friendly terms already. (And that’s a nice topic for another entry: why some people cannot even utter their exes’ names without a twitch, and why some people can keep them on good terms. Hmmm.)
Instead, let’s talk about celebrities who have caught my fancy one way or another over the years. Someone once described the celebrity crush as being like a teenaged girl’s training bra for relationships: you grow into it, and it gets you ready for the real thing. In that case, boy was I ever unprepared for the real world.
I hope you have your asthma inhaler because this is embarrassing for me, and hilarious for those friends who know about it.
When I was growing up, there were plenty of men to choose from on TV, and my choices included Erik Estrada of “CHiPS,” the men on the soaps “Dynasty” and “Falcon Crest,” particularly Lorenzo Lamas; David Hasselhoff of “Knight Rider”; and Pierce Brosnan of “Remington Steele.” I swooned over Luke in “Star Wars” too. The eyes had it; if deep-set eyes were paired with a husky voice, I was gone. Colonial mentality rules; at the age of nine, I’d determined that I wanted to marry a foreign guy. (Who’d’ve thought I’d wind up with a man who looked foreign, all right…albeit Korean?)
I was the kind of girl who went for what she wanted, regardless of the consequences. In 1985, I decided I wanted Robby Rosa, member of Menudo and lead singer. He personified the type which would become the kind of male guaranteed to send my ovaries into an uproar: tall, lean (and somewhat rugged), deep-set eyes and thick eyebrows, and the kind of voice that made me want to marry him at “hello.” So I pestered my mother, who had showbiz connections, into pulling a few strings, and I got to meet him several times, thanks to her ingenuity. I have pictures cuddling up to him, and even one of him kissing me, this time thanks to his friend Ricky Martin. In short, I lived the teenaged girl’s fantasy of meeting the idol and getting up close and personal.
But such easy success turned my head and set my standards a bit high. I decided I wanted a guy who was a celebrity, not understanding that it was just a case of me wanting eye candy on my arm and not a real person.
I went through a brief flirtation with local celebrities (not literally) after Menudo’s star sank. I watched shows like “Triple Treat” because of the singer Keno, and “Palibhasa Lalake” (ugh) because of Richard Gomez, and silly movies like “Huwag Mong Buhayin ang Bangkay” for Jestoni Alarcon, and “Pik Pak Boom” for the celebrity cast. And if you think it didn’t cause me physical pain to write that, you are dead wrong.
But in my senior year in high school, I set my sights on Benjie Paras, a calculated move, as he was still a basketball rookie and had all his hair. I could get into his school, the state university, and I could figure out how to meet him. Or so I thought.
I worked briefly for a basketball fan magazine in order to meet him, and sent him my sexiest photo in my mermaid-like sagala outfit. Unfortunately all I got was a bunch of panting phone calls from his driver, who apparently was in the habit of opening his mail.
Certainly I got to know Benjie on a “hi, hello, um I forgot your name but hi anyway” basis, but no further. The last I ever saw of him in UP was on the way to my Math I finals. I ran into him on the stairs and he shushed me when I asked why he was taking the Math I finals when he was already on his sixth year of school.
Time to turn my sights back on foreigners, I decided. No particular member of the Brat Pack of the 80s interested me, but as a group I liked them.
Who is my type today? The basics have remained constant, although my standards have become more flexible. For one, after seeing the “Harry Potter” movies, I told Polar Bearball that he would have to move over and let someone else father my children, as I wanted a son who looked like Daniel Radcliffe (“Harry”).
Who else do I fixate on? David Caruso on CSI: Miami. Sean Connery. Nicholas Brendon and Anthony Stewart Head of “Buffy: The Vampire Slayer.” Will Smith. Simon on “American Idol.” And in response to the obvious question, yes, I am sick. All foreigners? Dunno why; the locals aren’t too much to my liking these days, and I’m sure they don’t care.
But they all pale in comparison to the celebrity crush I have on Oded Fehr. When I saw “The Mummy” with Polar Bearball, I flipped over him. He played the dark, mysterious Ardeth Bay, descendant of the Medjai. Those eyes! Those lips! The hair! That, that…voice! Those romance-slash-bodice-ripper-novel looks!
(Weird aside: I dreamt of him last week. I was supposed to be at some movie set with Goldie Gold, my best friend, and I told him, “You look different with your clothes on.” Not that I’ve ever seen him naked. But if anyone feels like putting him in my Christmas gift pile, Gawd bless you and thank you!)
I have an unfortunate tendency to follow the careers of those I was a fan of, and the results are mostly disappointing. Many of them have wound up selling questionable products on infomercials.
But I saw that Oded Fehr’s career has picked up; he’s playing lead on the UC: Undercover show on Star World. At first, I was unhappy that he’d cut his hair short. But later, I found myself eagerly awaiting the show. I watch it regularly, although if you make the mistake of asking me what the plotline is, you won’t get anything beyond “God I love his leather jacket! I wonder what cologne he wears?” If the guy ran a phone sex line, I’d bankrupt myself calling him up; I bet hearing “Please state your name,” would sound like “You have lovely skin; I’d like to taste it,” coming from him. Oooh.
Excuse me. I think I better stop talking about the guy before I start turning this into a porn entry.
Someone once told me that at “my age” I shouldn’t have crushes anymore. And why not? Every reputable sex expert will tell you that there’s nothing wrong with that. I encourage Polar Bearball’s crushes on celebrities because I know there’s no chance that he’ll actually try to cart off the entire Viva Hot Babe squad; for one, he hates having to make conversation with bimbos. Ogling celebrities allows me to indulge in fantasy, and to appreciate male beauty. My Polar Bearball is man enough for me, sure, but there’s a certain thrill to looking at what you know you can’t have, except in dreams. So long as I know where to draw the line, no problem there.
Now it’s time for me to get back to the show I don’t actually watch, but often see. Tee hee.
Labels: celebrity crushes, funny stories
Sunday, October 24, 2004
The Ubiquitous and Unoriginal Blog Post for Halloween
Everyone thinks that horror is defined by what goes bump in the night. Believe me, I often nab my Intro to Literature students on this one. But since I swore this would be a cheerier, happier blog (and since my own blog pet—see sidebar—says I need to lighten up) here are a few versions of Helloween (spelling deliberate) for those in need of a laugh.
In my first year of teaching, I became close to an Engineering block I handled, and the kids there organized a “ghost hunt” on campus. Given all the stories of ghosts on UP campus, we were eager to see the requisite headless men, white ladies, floating protoplasm, and sundry other supernatural beings. But Botch, (and yes, that is his name and that is how it is spelled) along with Clint, the class president, decided to spice things up a bit. They organized small-group tours of “severely haunted” areas on campus. Groups of four or five would go in and come out laughing nervously.
When it was my turn, I was accompanied by two girls and three members of the UP men’s basketball team who were my students. Let’s refer to them as Pretty Boy, Big Boy, and Future PBA Star Boy. We ascended the dark stairs leading to the fourth floor of Palma Hall. Ambient noises made us jump and shudder every now and then. But Big Boy kept cracking nervous jokes about jumping off the ledges next to us. Strangely, this was comforting, at least until we reached the fourth (and top) floor. We passed one room from which we could hear unearthly whispering.
“What was that?” Pretty Boy quivered, and pointed at one door.
Future PBA Star Boy, the bravest of the lot, said, ”Wait. I’ll find out.” He slowly approached the door, and the closer he got, the less whispering we heard. As he was about to push the door open, it suddenly creaked on its hinges.
The trio screeched, and fled down the stairs. We followed quickly, squealing a little, and I timed Future PBA Star Boy’s descent from the fourth floor to the ground floor. Eight seconds. No wonder was known as the fast break specialist in the UAAP during his time.
I heard someone coming up behind us, and, resigned to my fate, faced the source of the noise. It was Botch, giggling like a girl. Turns out Clint had planted him there for the express purpose of scaring those who walked by.
In my first year of teaching, I became close to an Engineering block I handled, and the kids there organized a “ghost hunt” on campus. Given all the stories of ghosts on UP campus, we were eager to see the requisite headless men, white ladies, floating protoplasm, and sundry other supernatural beings. But Botch, (and yes, that is his name and that is how it is spelled) along with Clint, the class president, decided to spice things up a bit. They organized small-group tours of “severely haunted” areas on campus. Groups of four or five would go in and come out laughing nervously.
When it was my turn, I was accompanied by two girls and three members of the UP men’s basketball team who were my students. Let’s refer to them as Pretty Boy, Big Boy, and Future PBA Star Boy. We ascended the dark stairs leading to the fourth floor of Palma Hall. Ambient noises made us jump and shudder every now and then. But Big Boy kept cracking nervous jokes about jumping off the ledges next to us. Strangely, this was comforting, at least until we reached the fourth (and top) floor. We passed one room from which we could hear unearthly whispering.
“What was that?” Pretty Boy quivered, and pointed at one door.
Future PBA Star Boy, the bravest of the lot, said, ”Wait. I’ll find out.” He slowly approached the door, and the closer he got, the less whispering we heard. As he was about to push the door open, it suddenly creaked on its hinges.
The trio screeched, and fled down the stairs. We followed quickly, squealing a little, and I timed Future PBA Star Boy’s descent from the fourth floor to the ground floor. Eight seconds. No wonder was known as the fast break specialist in the UAAP during his time.
I heard someone coming up behind us, and, resigned to my fate, faced the source of the noise. It was Botch, giggling like a girl. Turns out Clint had planted him there for the express purpose of scaring those who walked by.
Labels: funny stories, halloween
Friday, October 22, 2004
Sleep Deprivation
I’m sleepy as I type this. But, shameless online exhibitionist that I am, I continue writing in hopes that someone will find what I write to be funny. In addition to that compulsion, I am trying to stave off sleep. Officially, it’s because I want to finish work on the various articles I’m editing for Wedding Essentials (plugging!) so that I can turn my attention to the huge pile of student papers I have to burn…er, check by Friday this week. I’m betting it’ll take me up to one hour before the “deadliest deadline” to finish that, given my propensity for Hearts, chow, scratch-the-cat’s-belly, and myriad other breaks I give myself on a regular (say five minute) basis. The actual deadline passed a week ago, by the way, and I am astounded by my own nerve. Used to be, I submitted everything on time. Not anymore. Who cares when the older faculty never observe deadlines anyway?
In an environment where many of the people I know pride themselves on their ability to go long periods without sleep, I alone am lying down, snoring. I like sleeping so much that one of my fondest memories involves the time I got so piss-drunk that I slept soundly for almost 24 hours without getting a headache. Sleeping is so much a hobby of mine that my mom sometimes complains that I just go over to her place to kip.
No argument from me there.
@_@
(LOOONG Digression: My CW 140 students—which included Cliff—who held my first real drinking session in hopes of finding out what I was like when I was drunk, found out to their dismay that I am, at best, only a mildly entertaining drunk. Apparently, all I did was to babble a bit about my colleagues’ indiscretions—instead of my own, interestingly enough—then, I sat off to one side grinning before I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I was slightly sober, and decided to go home. I got sleepy along the way, and some part of my brain dug up the information about safe driving: when sleepy, pull over to a well-lit place and nap for a bit. Why I decided that being under a lamppost in front of the squatter area on Kalayaan Avenue was safe will attest to my diminished brain capacities. [Let’s not argue about the normal state, OK? And the mooks who keep making fun of my Pocket PC mistake, well, the joke's on you because my Uncle Dave got such a huge laugh out of the whole thing that he decided to give me a new one. Ha!]
Anyway, I woke up to the sound of tapping on my window. Seems the roving cops saw me and decided to check me out. Cop tapping on window asked (in Tagalog), “Are you still alive?”
There isn’t a day that I don’t regret not telling him, “No.”)
@_@
Now where was I?
Once, in Subic, my sister Kat Kit and our housekeeper Matumila (so named because she sounds exactly like the amusing maid Matutina in the old comedy series “John en Marsha,” which I loved) had the misfortune to share a room with my dad and me. According to Kat Kit, I snored the bass line and my dad snorted the solo guitar all night in a free concert which they certainly hadn’t wanted to attend.
So it bugs me that these past few days, I’ve been getting along on three to four hours of sleep, which is barely half of my normal beddy-bye time.
The reason? Checking papers. Badly written papers. Lord in heaven, I want to take back the grades I gave out when I started teaching and raise everything to a 1. The mean average (hmm, was that a pun?) was 1.75 in the past for me. Now it’s 2.25 and I’m still “massaging” the computations for the final grades to bump them up. Argh.
Can’t wait for Wedding Essentials to be launched! ^_^
In an environment where many of the people I know pride themselves on their ability to go long periods without sleep, I alone am lying down, snoring. I like sleeping so much that one of my fondest memories involves the time I got so piss-drunk that I slept soundly for almost 24 hours without getting a headache. Sleeping is so much a hobby of mine that my mom sometimes complains that I just go over to her place to kip.
No argument from me there.
@_@
(LOOONG Digression: My CW 140 students—which included Cliff—who held my first real drinking session in hopes of finding out what I was like when I was drunk, found out to their dismay that I am, at best, only a mildly entertaining drunk. Apparently, all I did was to babble a bit about my colleagues’ indiscretions—instead of my own, interestingly enough—then, I sat off to one side grinning before I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I was slightly sober, and decided to go home. I got sleepy along the way, and some part of my brain dug up the information about safe driving: when sleepy, pull over to a well-lit place and nap for a bit. Why I decided that being under a lamppost in front of the squatter area on Kalayaan Avenue was safe will attest to my diminished brain capacities. [Let’s not argue about the normal state, OK? And the mooks who keep making fun of my Pocket PC mistake, well, the joke's on you because my Uncle Dave got such a huge laugh out of the whole thing that he decided to give me a new one. Ha!]
Anyway, I woke up to the sound of tapping on my window. Seems the roving cops saw me and decided to check me out. Cop tapping on window asked (in Tagalog), “Are you still alive?”
There isn’t a day that I don’t regret not telling him, “No.”)
@_@
Now where was I?
Once, in Subic, my sister Kat Kit and our housekeeper Matumila (so named because she sounds exactly like the amusing maid Matutina in the old comedy series “John en Marsha,” which I loved) had the misfortune to share a room with my dad and me. According to Kat Kit, I snored the bass line and my dad snorted the solo guitar all night in a free concert which they certainly hadn’t wanted to attend.
So it bugs me that these past few days, I’ve been getting along on three to four hours of sleep, which is barely half of my normal beddy-bye time.
The reason? Checking papers. Badly written papers. Lord in heaven, I want to take back the grades I gave out when I started teaching and raise everything to a 1. The mean average (hmm, was that a pun?) was 1.75 in the past for me. Now it’s 2.25 and I’m still “massaging” the computations for the final grades to bump them up. Argh.
Can’t wait for Wedding Essentials to be launched! ^_^
Labels: funny stories, sleepiness
Friday, October 15, 2004
RANT 2: Who Did That To Dexter?
This is not a happy post.
Our neighbor's cat, a big, orange bruiser named Dexter, was brought to the animal hospital last night, and I can only wonder what kind of a human animal could have done what was done to him.
A little background. Dexter is the neighborhood bully, an incorrigible wanderer who regularly swaggered into our garage and used our cats for punching bags. But, though my dad, Matumila, and I sometimes fantasized about kebab-ing him, it stayed at that: a fantasy. We eventually resorted to throwing water on him every time we saw him to stop him from beating on our cats.
But it was hard to stay mad at the orange bugger. He would roll around and bump against us affectionately, and once, when I was subjecting him to harsh language as a result of his latest go-round with our oldest cat, he exposed his tummy and squeezed his eyes at me. He liked people; he could sometimes be seen hanging around the neighborhood drunks or the late-night workers, getting their attention and affection. He just, well, didn't like other cats, except for his own mother.
A few days ago, his owner summoned me in a tizzy; I have a somewhat undeserved reputation in our area as an animal health expert. Dexter was a sorry sight; his fur had been scraped off in several places, exposing the pink skin under it. He was limping, and could only utter a faint meow when I checked on him. I thought he'd been run over; but two details didn't compute. His whiskers had curled and kinked, almost as though someone had crimped them with a hot iron. And he had a strange injury around the butt area. I gave the owner some vitamins and advised her to feed him more protein for healing. I also asked her to check on his bowel and urination movements.
Last night, they rushed him to the animal hospital. Dexter could not, had not moved his bowels since he came home injured.
I won't mince words. The vet said he'd been sodomized, possibly with a knife. Hot water had been poured on him, and he'd been scalded as well. He had some broken bones to boot.
Why didn't they just kill him? This just proves that I am right when I say that there is no such thing as human dignity as far as some people are concerned. They're worse than animals; animals don't rape or torture other animals (although a mouse in the clutches of a playful cat might disagree with me).
Those creatures just like to pretend we're better than other animals. I firmly believe that one of the reasons why this country cannot pull itself out of the mire its in is its citizens' inability to respect life. Pinoys pollute. Pinoys mistreat animals. Pinoys prey on those who are perceived to be weak : we make fun of the handicapped, the hurt, the fat, the unhappy...anyone they can lord it over.
My best proof that there are those among us who are truly lower life forms? I once had to work with a woman who had been raped by her husband in front of their eldest son. I saw the pictures of what they'd done; they'd not only split her wide open, they'd also used her vagina for an ashtray. That man--his last name was Magat, and if you run a hotel, do NOT hire this bastard--then invited his son to join the "festivities" when he was done. The boy happily joined in. Their case is pending at the QC RTC right now. The ugly part is, this man has turned all four children against the woman, and her children believe that she "asked for it." Animals follow the strong, and human animals are no better; that's why the Marcoses got away for so long with their rape of the country.
I feel angry and helpless, and that's a horrible feeling. Polar Bearball told me that I couldn't save all the animals who are abused in this country. But damn it and fuck it all. Why do people have to do these things? The Koran teaches us to respect animals; a lovely story I heard once was about the Prophet cutting off his sleeve instead of disturbing his sleeping cat. The Bible clearly states that we are responsible for all life on this planet. I know of no legitimate religion that teaches people to hurt animals. Plus, in my studies of abnormal psychology, nearly every serial killer started out by abusing animals.
It's a very short leap from abusing that cat to abusing a human being. I am angry and frustrated because tonight, I will go to bed, and, just a few houses away, so will a lower life form who will, someday, decide to set his sights on bigger prey. I can only pray that it won't be me.
I curse you, lower life form who abused Dexter. I curse you to suffer greatly in your life. May you always be disappointed in even your smallest hopes. You will always be shunned by people and animals alike, and you will die alone. This curse can only be lifted once you devote at least one lifetime to taking care of animals, and once you understand what you have truly done.
Our neighbor's cat, a big, orange bruiser named Dexter, was brought to the animal hospital last night, and I can only wonder what kind of a human animal could have done what was done to him.
A little background. Dexter is the neighborhood bully, an incorrigible wanderer who regularly swaggered into our garage and used our cats for punching bags. But, though my dad, Matumila, and I sometimes fantasized about kebab-ing him, it stayed at that: a fantasy. We eventually resorted to throwing water on him every time we saw him to stop him from beating on our cats.
But it was hard to stay mad at the orange bugger. He would roll around and bump against us affectionately, and once, when I was subjecting him to harsh language as a result of his latest go-round with our oldest cat, he exposed his tummy and squeezed his eyes at me. He liked people; he could sometimes be seen hanging around the neighborhood drunks or the late-night workers, getting their attention and affection. He just, well, didn't like other cats, except for his own mother.
A few days ago, his owner summoned me in a tizzy; I have a somewhat undeserved reputation in our area as an animal health expert. Dexter was a sorry sight; his fur had been scraped off in several places, exposing the pink skin under it. He was limping, and could only utter a faint meow when I checked on him. I thought he'd been run over; but two details didn't compute. His whiskers had curled and kinked, almost as though someone had crimped them with a hot iron. And he had a strange injury around the butt area. I gave the owner some vitamins and advised her to feed him more protein for healing. I also asked her to check on his bowel and urination movements.
Last night, they rushed him to the animal hospital. Dexter could not, had not moved his bowels since he came home injured.
I won't mince words. The vet said he'd been sodomized, possibly with a knife. Hot water had been poured on him, and he'd been scalded as well. He had some broken bones to boot.
Why didn't they just kill him? This just proves that I am right when I say that there is no such thing as human dignity as far as some people are concerned. They're worse than animals; animals don't rape or torture other animals (although a mouse in the clutches of a playful cat might disagree with me).
Those creatures just like to pretend we're better than other animals. I firmly believe that one of the reasons why this country cannot pull itself out of the mire its in is its citizens' inability to respect life. Pinoys pollute. Pinoys mistreat animals. Pinoys prey on those who are perceived to be weak : we make fun of the handicapped, the hurt, the fat, the unhappy...anyone they can lord it over.
My best proof that there are those among us who are truly lower life forms? I once had to work with a woman who had been raped by her husband in front of their eldest son. I saw the pictures of what they'd done; they'd not only split her wide open, they'd also used her vagina for an ashtray. That man--his last name was Magat, and if you run a hotel, do NOT hire this bastard--then invited his son to join the "festivities" when he was done. The boy happily joined in. Their case is pending at the QC RTC right now. The ugly part is, this man has turned all four children against the woman, and her children believe that she "asked for it." Animals follow the strong, and human animals are no better; that's why the Marcoses got away for so long with their rape of the country.
I feel angry and helpless, and that's a horrible feeling. Polar Bearball told me that I couldn't save all the animals who are abused in this country. But damn it and fuck it all. Why do people have to do these things? The Koran teaches us to respect animals; a lovely story I heard once was about the Prophet cutting off his sleeve instead of disturbing his sleeping cat. The Bible clearly states that we are responsible for all life on this planet. I know of no legitimate religion that teaches people to hurt animals. Plus, in my studies of abnormal psychology, nearly every serial killer started out by abusing animals.
It's a very short leap from abusing that cat to abusing a human being. I am angry and frustrated because tonight, I will go to bed, and, just a few houses away, so will a lower life form who will, someday, decide to set his sights on bigger prey. I can only pray that it won't be me.
I curse you, lower life form who abused Dexter. I curse you to suffer greatly in your life. May you always be disappointed in even your smallest hopes. You will always be shunned by people and animals alike, and you will die alone. This curse can only be lifted once you devote at least one lifetime to taking care of animals, and once you understand what you have truly done.
Labels: animal abuse, rants
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Sgt. Murphy's Rules of Combat
The Sgt. Murphy's Rules of Combat, which I provide below, is something that made me laugh. It resonates with someone who’s played Top Secret: S. I. and who was part of what my Game Administrator, Polar Bearball, says is the worst group of misfits ever to pose as commandos.
Nonetheless, he enjoys occasional sessions with me, Brujah Louie, Martian Solution, Lasombra Casanova, and Powerboy Carding, as all he has to do is to give us a scenario and we basically screw ourselves over. GM mercy is a huge thing in our games, especially when most of us use the game for stress release and are prone to feats of incredible stupidity. Curious? I’ll tell you short stories about some of our “finest” moments.
The Pride’s The Thing
Powerboy Carding, our baddest and toughest character, is down to two damage boxes and is suffering from what is politely called “a sucking chest wound.” There’s one last enemy (who conveniently cannot understand English) around the corridor from him; he is nearest to the bad guy. Martian Solution peers over at Powerboy Carding’s character sheet and notes that he has a Level Two compulsion to gamble. In addition to this, the character is noted on the character sheet to be rather prideful. Unwilling to risk his last few hit points, Martian Solution yells down the corridor:
“Bet you twenty dollars you can’t get that jerk around the corner!”
Powerboy is forced to save against his compulsion and fails miserably; he charges down the corridor and is met with unfriendly fire. When the smoke clears, he’s out cold. But true to his character, Powerboy wakes up in the hospital and his first words are:
“Where’s my twenty bucks?”
^_^
Because I’m A Seal (Or Why You Shouldn’t Bug GameMasters)
(This involves a former player, Ihsan Shade, who disgraced all RPG Navy SEALs with his actions. He stopped playing after getting married and moving several cities away. He’s a lawyer, by the way, but strangely this means he sucks at adjudicating games. This takes place before I began playing and was merely observing. Polar Bearball is not yet my boyfriend at this point.)
Scenario: As commander of a group of newbies, Ihsan Shade was planning an attack on a yacht moored several miles offshore. It contains a bunch of terrorists (nationality unspecified, because who cares? As far as your average gamers are concerned, they’re just moving targets who can, on occasion, fight back)
Ihsan Shade: Okay, we infiltrate the dock closest to the yacht at eleven pm in an ice cream truck. That’s not likely to attract attention. We’ll play the ice cream music to solidify our cover.
Kitty Litter (kibitzing): Huh? You want to play music at eleven in the evening? The dock will be silent and you’ll stick out like sore thumbs in an ice cream truck!
IS: Uh, yeah! As a SEAL, I know that, right, Polar Bearball? I revise my plans!
Polar Bearball (the gamemaster): … Uh, okay. So how do you intend to communicate underwater?
IS: Every five minutes, guys, we’ll rise above the water and I’ll carry a waterproof bullhorn so that I can give directions.
PB: Sure. (evil grin forming on face)
KL: Um, doesn’t sound carry over water? Won’t that alert the terrorists to your presence?
IS: (pause for thought) Oo nga ano. Hey Polar Bearball! As a SEAL, I know everything there is to know about water so I won’t do that. (turns to Kitty Litter) So, what do you suggest?
KL: How about throat mikes, waterproofed and set to function only on a particular frequency and range?
IS: You got that, Polar Bearball? I requisition this for the team.
PB: (grumble) Yes. Are you guys on the docks already or are you still in the planning stage?
IS: I’m making this up as I go along, dude.
PB: … Uh. Okay. So how do you infiltrate the yacht?
IS: We use our standard gear. The grappling hooks! We’ll shoot them silently on board then climb up.
KL: Uh, grappling hooks make noise ‘cause it’s metal on metal. Why not use those big suction cups on TV? Dunno what they’re called.
IS: (after a long pause) Hey, good idea! Polar Bearball, as a SEAL, I…
PB: Yeah, yeah, I get it. Hey you, Kitty Litter? Here’s a character sheet.
KL: But I don’t know how to make one.
PB: (concealing evil grin) Ihsan Shade will help you.
(I wound up with a character who had “…the hit points of a gnat,” incidentally, as Ihsan Shade told me to designate the best stats I rolled as my strength, and the worst as my constitution. Argh.)
*_*
More to follow once I get permission from the other guys (and their promises that they won’t kill me). Let me know if you liked these stories. Enjoy the list that follows; I certainly did.
Sgt. Murphy’s Laws of Combat Operations
Contributed to HumourNet by Sgt. Ron Piwarski
1. Friendly fire…ain’t.
2. Recoilless rifles…aren’t.
3. Suppressive fire…won’t.
4. You are not Superman—Marines and fighter pilots take note.
5. A sucking chest wound is Nature’s way of telling you to slow down.
6. If it’s stupid but it works, it isn’t stupid.
7. Try to look unimportant…the enemy may be low on ammo and not want to waste a bullet on you.
8. If at first you don’t succeed, call in an airstrike.
9. If you are forward of your position, your artillery will fall short.
10. Never share a foxhole with anyone braver than yourself.
11. Never go to bed with anyone crazier than yourself.
12. Never forget that your weapon was made by the lowest bidder.
13. If your attack is going really well, it’s an ambush.
14. The enemy diversion you’re ignoring is their main attack.
15. The enemy invariably attacks on two occasions: when they’re ready and when you’re not.
16. No OPLAN ever survives initial contact.
17. There is no such thing as a perfect plan.
18. Five-second fuses always burn three seconds.
19. There is no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
20. A retreating enemy is probably just falling back and regrouping.
21. The important things are always simple; the simple things are always hard.
22. The easy way is always mined.
23. Teamwork is essential; it gives the enemy other people to shoot at.
24. Don’t look conspicuous; it draws fire. For this reason, it is not at all uncommon for aircraft carriers to be known as bomb magnets.
25. Never draw fire; it irritates everyone around you.
26. If you are short of everything but the enemy, you are in the combat zone.
27. When you have secured the area, make sure the enemy knows it too.
28. Incoming fire has the right of way.
29. No combat-ready unit has ever passed inspection.
30. No inspection-ready unit has ever passed combat.
31. If the enemy is within range, so are you.
32. The only thing more accurate than incoming enemy fire is incoming friendly fire.
33. Things that must be shipped together as a set, aren’t.
34. Things that must work together can’t be carried to the field that way.
35. Radios will fail as soon as you need fire support.
36. Radar tends to fail at night or in bad weather, and especially in both.
37. Anything you do can get you killed, including nothing.
38. Make it too tough for the enemy to get in, and you won’t be able to get out.
39. Tracers work both ways.
40. If you take more than your fair share of objectives, you will get more than your fair share of objectives to take.
41. When both sides are convinced they’re about to lose, they’re both right.
42. Professional soldiers are predictable; the world is full of dangerous amateurs.
43. “Military intelligence” is a contradiction.
44. Fortify your front and you’ll get your rear shot up.
45. Weather ain’t neutral.
46. If you can’t remember, the Claymore is pointed towards you.
47. Air Defense Motto: Shoot ‘em down, sort ‘em out on the ground.
48. ‘Flies high, it dies; low n’ slow, it’ll go.
49. The cavalry doesn’t always come to the rescue.
50. Napalm is an area support weapon.
51. Mines are equal opportunity weapons.
52. B-52s are the ultimate close support weapon.
53. Sniper’s Motto: Reach out and touch someone.
54. Killing for peace is like screwing for virginity.
55. The one item you need—is always in short supply.
56. Interchangeable parts—aren’t.
57. It’s not the one with your name on it; it’s the one addressed “To whom it may concern” you’ve got to think about.
58. When in doubt, empty your magazine.
59. The side with the simplest uniforms wins.
60. Combat will occur on the ground between two adjoining maps.
61. If the Platoon Sergeant can see you, so can the enemy.
62. Never stand when you can sit, never sit when you can lie down, and never stay awake when you can sleep.
63. The most dangerous thing in the world is a Second Lieutenant with a map and a compass.
64. Exceptions prove the rule and destroy the battle plan.
65. Everything always works in your HQ; everything always fails in the Colonel’s HQ.
66. The enemy never watches until you make a mistake.
67. One enemy soldier is never enough, but two is entirely too many.
68. A clean and dry set of battle dress uniforms is a magnet for mud and rain.
69. The worse the weather, the more you are required to be out in it.
70. When you have plenty of ammo, you never miss. When you’re low on ammo, you can’t hit the broad side of a barn.
71. The more a weapon costs, the farther you will have to send it away to be repaired.
72. The complexity of a weapon is inversely proportional to the IQ of the weapon’s operator.
73. Field experience is something you don’t get until just after you need it.
74. No matter which way you have to march, it’s always uphill.
75. If enough data is collected, a board of inquiry can prove anything.
76. Airstrikes always overshoot the target; artillery always falls short.
77. When reviewing the radio frequencies you just wrote down, the most important ones are always illegible.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Say What?
I’ve become slightly deaf over the past year, and I first began noticing this when my favorite catchphrase became “Pardon me?” instead of the requisite turn-the-air-blue four-letter words I normally favor.
(Icky stuff ahead. You’ve been warned. I doubt you’ll be eating when you read what follows this, so hey)
The EENT specialist I consulted told me that my slight deafness was the result of “overcleaning” my ears. I’m finicky about smells, dirt, and other unpleasant addenda to my person, so I bathe twice a day, use deodorant and perfume, and get overly enthusiastic about cleaning my belly button, ears, toes, nails, and other bodily crevices—the result being that I appear to have hurt my eardrums.
Prior to this, I’d become hypersensitive to noise. I regularly yell at noisy kids milling about in the corridor where I work (and when I started this piece, I had just done so, in fact). I close my windows at night when our neighbors caterwaul on their infernal karaokes. I drive without the radio on. This often unnerves people who know me well, as I am normally a chatterbox. But sometimes the joy of being a chatterbox is in those times you are silent.
I like silence just as well as I like the sound of my own voice. I like hearing my own thoughts. I like stillness, and being alone doesn’t unnerve me as badly as it does other people (unless it’s in a dark place, late at night…oh, I’ll save that for Halloween). I know people who just can’t shut up; one such specimen, disconcerted by my quiet driving style, kept babbling at me until I had to yell at him to shut up so that I could concentrate on the road. Argh.
(Icky stuff ahead. You’ve been warned. I doubt you’ll be eating when you read what follows this, so hey)
The EENT specialist I consulted told me that my slight deafness was the result of “overcleaning” my ears. I’m finicky about smells, dirt, and other unpleasant addenda to my person, so I bathe twice a day, use deodorant and perfume, and get overly enthusiastic about cleaning my belly button, ears, toes, nails, and other bodily crevices—the result being that I appear to have hurt my eardrums.
Prior to this, I’d become hypersensitive to noise. I regularly yell at noisy kids milling about in the corridor where I work (and when I started this piece, I had just done so, in fact). I close my windows at night when our neighbors caterwaul on their infernal karaokes. I drive without the radio on. This often unnerves people who know me well, as I am normally a chatterbox. But sometimes the joy of being a chatterbox is in those times you are silent.
I like silence just as well as I like the sound of my own voice. I like hearing my own thoughts. I like stillness, and being alone doesn’t unnerve me as badly as it does other people (unless it’s in a dark place, late at night…oh, I’ll save that for Halloween). I know people who just can’t shut up; one such specimen, disconcerted by my quiet driving style, kept babbling at me until I had to yell at him to shut up so that I could concentrate on the road. Argh.
One of the few people who understand (and I'm trying to figure out whether the SV agreement on this thing is correct) my need for silence is Polar Bearball. Silence can be companionable, and some of the best times we've had together are the times we snuggle up for hours on end and don't say a word. He doesn't have to; his nearness is enough.
Conversely, he understands why I often schedule “dates” with myself, and go shopping, or salon-tripping, or just wandering about alone. I fantasize about being able to afford a house out in the middle of nowhere (that nowhere being lushly forested; deserts are just not my thing), with all the modern conveniences and one high-tech feature: a sound-dampening barrier. Just in case.
If you think I have unsociable tendencies*, you should also know that I took up teaching in order to have a captive audience at all times. This presents a problem when I actually have to do work, i.e., write a lesson plan. But it works out, and since I haven’t been given the boot yet (and it’s been ten years), I guess I must be good at making myself look capable enough as a teacher to deceive both students and my superiors.
(*Allow me to register at this point my annoyance with calling people who don’t party much “antisocial.” Unless we’ve been responsible for the local version of 9/11, we are not “antisocial.” We are merely unsociable. There’s a huge difference, and if anyone needs to know what that means—and wants me to write it here—there’s the dictionary, you lazy mook. Hah.)
In other words, I like people too. I like audiences, and I like playing to an audience; were I not the least bit unsure of my abilities to elicit laughter, I would’ve turned into one of those stand-up comics at the nearby comedy clubs.
But silence can be a friend, and I like seeing this particular friend on a fairly regular basis. You can’t get tired of being silent; it is my cherished theory that people who find it hard to shut up really don’t have much to say that’s worth listening to. Silence can teach you so much, and be such great company without intruding into whatever it is you’re working on at a certain time.
I’m not sorry to say that I look down on noisy students, especially the loudmouthed ones. Why? Why be noisy when, in the words of Samurai Jack, one word can convey a thousand meanings? When soundless gestures can say volumes? When language cannot be reduced to terms of signifier=single signified meaning?
So, in a way, I welcome the prospect of temporary deafness. It saves me from having to disembowel people on a regular basis, and, best of all, it keeps me sane in a society obsessed with NOISE! Butch Dalisay had it right on target when wrote in Barfly that when God created noise and the Pinoy discovered that it was free, the Pinoy decided he had to have lots and lots and lots of it.
That’s why we have new establishments playing LOOOUUUD music to attract customers…never noticing that people tend to avoid places where they can’t even hear their own orders. That’s why, in many movies, the villain and hero usually have a LOOOONNNGG dialogue before anything else. That’s why we have TV hosts and DJs whose daily dialogue never deviates from this pattern: BLAHYADDABLAHYADDAYADDABLAHBLAH.
(Wow, look at me writing this when what I’m writing in this blog is, when viewed a certain way, just another version of BLAHYADDABLAHYADDAYADDABLAHBLAH. But I’d like to think that I make more sense than “This is our special guest, Mr. Guest, who is our special guest for the day! He’s a special guest, so stay tuned for our special guest!” And no, I am not making this up.)
If you ask me, I’d rather test my brains on a noh play, where “…a single step can signify a journey of a thousand miles,” and the audience is encouraged (in some cases, with lethal force) to shut up. Ah, the sheer joy of simply thinking of that!
Labels: hearing problems, silence
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
Ang Pasko Ay Sumapit
Good Lord. Just when I thought that crass commercialism couldn't get any worse, I visited SM yesterday and saw that the Christmas displays were out on sale already. Hello, people, what about Halloween? I get the feeling they'd be happier if they could just stick a hose into our wallets and ATMs and just suck, suck, suck. (If that took you to a scary visual place-- ala Xander-- then congratulations.) Sigh.
*_*
It did remind me of something my sister Kit Kat encountered about two years ago, when she first learned how to drive. You know how carolers litter the streets during the Christmas season? One guy came up to her, and, feeling sorry for the poor soul, she dug into her coin tray and prepared to give him five bucks. Ordinarily, she prefers to shoo such people away, especially if they look capable of supporting themselves. Other times, she likes to give them food. But this one was particularly grim- and cadaverous-looking, and she had no food on hand, so she gave him cash.
He refused to take it without giving her something back, though. With a dignified step back, he drew breath, then proceeded to sing.
Well, "chant" is more like it; he delivered his song in a flat, cheerless monotone, all the while maintaining his grim expression. Kit Kat managed to control her laughter out of politeness; it was disconcerting hearing the cheery lines, "Ang Pasko ay sumapit! Tayo ay magsiawit/ Ng magagandang himig..." in his unique style.
Oddly enough, though, he maintained his dignity throughout the entire business, Kit Kat says. Handing him the five buck "tip" was like handing a five hundred buck gratuity to a pianist at some five star hotel.
I have never believed that your social class dictates how you see yourself. This man may have been in rags, and he may have been starving, but I can picture him now...and I only wish I had the same dignity of self that he possessed.
Labels: crass commercialism, dignity, funny stories
Monday, October 11, 2004
Animal Planet Pinoy Style
A School Snippet. Sort Of.
This afternoon I was checking papers when I heard a pounding coming from outside my office. The walls in the Faculty Center are so laughably thin, you can just raise your voice a bit and be able to carry on a perfectly intelligible conversation with your neighbor, so you can imagine how noisy that was. Since I was in killer mode (I'm hoping for a 25% fatality rate in my class. Now if I only had the guts to carry my threat out), I was in no mood to tolerate the disturbance. The pounding continued for several seconds, so I went out and saw two boys using the door across the hall as a percussion instrument.
I never thought I would ever see Harry Potter characters come to life, but there in front of me were Dudley Dursley's "rat-faced friend, Piers Polkiss" and Goyle...well, at least Piers and Goyle, Filipino version.
The Polkiss look-alike was literally a human rat; his snout twitched in a mannerism which was cute on Lucy Liu in "Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle," but on him, it was reminiscent of the kind of sewer-rat refuse even normal house rats look down on. The Goyle look-alike looked too much like the "Fat Fairy" (even the desperate gay guys I know would never stoop so low as to go out with him) who liked to dance around in a small comic book store I like going to...much to the dismay of the owner, who fantasized about throwing him over the third floor railing. Let's call them Rat Turd Face and Goyle.
Goyle looked at me stupidly, but his brain had evolved enough for him to realize that he was in danger of being given a sermon, so he stopped tapping the door. Rat Turd Face continued to pound on the door. I got Rat-Boy's attention and told him to stop pounding on the door; it was obvious that no one was around. With that, I left.
Important digression: A few months ago, I saw a feature on Animal Planet on chimps. The lead chimp was being pestered by a younger male who insisted on whacking a coconut husk on the branch where the alpha male was (I hope I've got the terms right; if not, do let me know). The more pissed the alpha male, the more the younger one insisted on pounding on the branch with the coconut.
Sound familiar?
On with my story. I ran into Rat Face and Pig Snout in the corridor several minutes later. As I passed them, Rat Face started tapping on the wall.
It's kind of pathetic how these boys see their laughably immature actions as being "cool." I can only presume that Rat Face was humiliated when I singled him out for attention, so he had to get back at me in some way. Let's try to duplicate his tiny brain processes:
* Teacher bad to me!
* Must revenge to teacher!
* Teacher no can be pounded to floor. No can kill. She bigger me. May be she eat me! No!
* See teacher! She mad when me pound, so me tap wall! Me superior! This me version Tarzan pound chest!
Who's going to try and convince me that we are superior to animals? Come on! We ALL exhibit animalistic behavior at one time or another; sadly, in many cases, it's all the time. Erma Bombeck's book, "All I Need To Know About Animal Behavior I Learned In The Loehmann's Dressing Room" is more insightful than the average anthropological report. What we like to think of as human dignity is really defense mechanism. We have this innate need to feel superior; hence Rat Face tapping the wall, and me writing this post. Too bad for him I'm better at revenge.
I could go on and on and rant about this, but I have something else to write. And yes, to the fans of the funny, it is funny. ^_^
Labels: "joys" of teaching, funny fights
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Complacency
Hmm. I haven't posted in some time, although I have several "hatchling" posts waiting for completion. I hate that, this entire business of waiting for an idea to crystallize so that you can shape it and complete it. But at the same time, there is a certain charm to keeping a pre-journal journal (does that make sense?) where you toss in half-baked ideas. I love looking back and trying to make sense of what I wanted to write, and finding little nuggets that make me happy to be a writer.
Thumping my own Bible? You bet. A lot of writing is, I believe, a form of ego. We adapt writing personas, just as actors have public and private images. I like pretending to be bitchier, sillier, and crazier than I really am. For one, I live a rather sedate life, and the high point of my day can get as banal as finding something on sale. But when I write about things, they become more important. As Martian Solution (argh, am trying to learn how to link other peoples' blogs to mine, and failing miserably. I am Beerkada's "inter-nitwit.") said in his first long post, chronicling a life can make it more meaningful.
Was it Emerson who said that the unexamined life was not worth living?
===========
Will be writing more about writing; will be cannibalizing my own blog for my upcoming professorial lecture. Heh heh.
I am amazed that I've been teaching for ten years now, and here's a cliche: where did the time go?
===========
I love clicking the "Next Blog" link. I'm wondering how long it'll take before I stumble on someone I know. I've also found lovely blogs; try http://richardsonzoo.blogspot.com (sorry, still don't know how to link. To rip off on Beerkada, I am the global village idiot) and read the funny, funny essay on gift-wrapping with cats! The owner, Cheryl Richardson, has a passion for rescuing animals, and she is also a librarian. Had I not been a writing teacher, I would've loved to have been a librarian. Too bad I'm a messy person! ^o^
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
RANT! Customer Disservice
EDIT March 7 2007: Thai in a Box has closed down all over Manila. Serves them right.)
(RANT! is a section of this blog devoted to bad stuff. You've been forewarned.)
Boxed By Customer Disservice (Or Why TIB Sucks)
After a tiring morning running errands, I drove up to SM City and decided to have lunch at the Cyberzone area. No, I didn’t have chipsets and RAM for lunch, if you’re wondering. But I did have a lousy lunch, thanks to one of the restaurants there.
I was thinking of having lunch at the pasta/coffee place next to the entrance near the Sale Club but decided to go "tried and tested," so I went over to Thai In A Box (TIB). I ordered some bagoong rice, and was looking over the menu for my "ulam" when the waiter pointed out the display on their new specials.
I chose the fried chicken on the display list he recommended. The waiter warned me that the order would take some time-fifteen minutes tops. I decided to wait anyway; it was only 11:55 a.m. and I had some time to spare.
I buried myself in a book of essays, and unfortunately for TIB, it contained a well-written essay on consumer rights. It argues that when customers do not make a stand, albeit a polite yet pointed one, they encourage businesses to screw them over. Food for thought...though when my stomach began grumbling, I realized that I also needed food for the tummy.
I looked up after finishing half of the book. It was 12:15. I summoned the nearest waiter and told him to follow up on my order, as it had already been twenty minutes since the first waiter promised that my meal would arrive in fifteen minutes. He went to check on my order, and I am informed that it will only take a few more minutes. "Sandali na lang," he said, and alleged that the kitchen had "just finished defrosting" the chicken.
The waiters were by now giving me wary looks. I hadn’t even gone into bitch mode yet, and I was being treated as though I had already made a scene. Kayo na nga ang me kasalanan pero ako ang gago.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but given the length of time I waited, I believe the scenario is this: they forgot all about my order and were trying to cover it up. Why else would the staff be giving me guilty looks? The guy who appeared to be the manager also disappeared at around this point, so I decided that it would be pointless to get angry.
Instead, at around 12:30, I picked up my stuff and left. Thai In A Box is supposed to be a fast food chain, and no dish on their menu is worth waiting thirty-five minutes for. They’re not that good, and at better restaurants, the service is faster. I know of one restaurant in the same price range, Wah Yuen, with superior food quality, which only takes ten, fifteen minutes-tops-to serve a meal for six people consisting of seven different items. There is no excuse for the ineptitude I was shown. None whatsoever.
The last time I had to wait in a restaurant-Kenny Rogers E. Rodriguez-I was given a complimentary iced tea when the waiting time for my order went over fifteen minutes. The manager served it herself, and she apologized personally to me and to several other customers, and proceeded to explain that the lunch rush was bigger than usual.
In a situation like that, you don’t mind waiting at all. You have been treated with respect, and you have been given the truth about the late order. Sure, some morons will raise a stink about the situation regardless, but I (and a lot of other people like me) am not a moron. I am reasonable; had I not been so, would I have waited the original fifteen minutes for my order?
As I left TIB, I heard the waiter try and call me back. Apparently, he was ready to serve my order. Now why would I want to come back? I was willing to be that the bill would take another thirty minutes, and no bill is worth waiting for.
Was I wrong to leave? I don’t think so. I didn’t raise a scene, and though I would have had a huge audience (and a just reason) for a dramatic scene, I simply left. Someone told me that I should feel sorry for the staff; now the cost of my meal will come out of their pockets.
Why should I even care? Whatever happens is their fault, and was completely their fault to begin with. The customer is always right, remember?
This, I think, is the point that the TIB people will miss completely. I’m willing to bet that right now, I am being discussed in tones of anger, derision, and annoyance by the same people-as if I were the unreasonable one. Ako na nga ang biktima, ako pa ang masama.
They are likely to never own up to the original mistake, and disregard the facts: (1) I ordered the special on their waiter’s recommendation; (2) I cooperated with them and willingly waited the original 15 minutes; and (3) I did not raise a scene at any point of the failed transaction. If they had a customer service representative-which I doubt-that person should have been on top of things and should have noticed the problem.
Oh but I forgot. There is no customer service in the Philippines. The customer is someone hold down and screw in the ass with a ten-foot pole over and over as far as most local businesses are concerned. They do not understand that good will is the best currency, and they never will.
Even if TIB should, by some miracle, get hold of my complaint and act upon it, the damage will have been done. I will not remove this post from this blog. I will never go back to any branch of TIB. And you can be sure that I will let all my friends and relatives know. If Friendster and Six Degrees of Separation are any indication, a little goes a long way…and right now, I really don’t care if TIB suffers as a result of this. Why should I? They certainly didn’t care when I suffered as a result of their actions; and I'm sure that given half a chance (or even none at all), they will cheerfully spit in my food if I ever make the mistake of coming back there.
(RANT! is a section of this blog devoted to bad stuff. You've been forewarned.)
Boxed By Customer Disservice (Or Why TIB Sucks)
After a tiring morning running errands, I drove up to SM City and decided to have lunch at the Cyberzone area. No, I didn’t have chipsets and RAM for lunch, if you’re wondering. But I did have a lousy lunch, thanks to one of the restaurants there.
I was thinking of having lunch at the pasta/coffee place next to the entrance near the Sale Club but decided to go "tried and tested," so I went over to Thai In A Box (TIB). I ordered some bagoong rice, and was looking over the menu for my "ulam" when the waiter pointed out the display on their new specials.
I chose the fried chicken on the display list he recommended. The waiter warned me that the order would take some time-fifteen minutes tops. I decided to wait anyway; it was only 11:55 a.m. and I had some time to spare.
I buried myself in a book of essays, and unfortunately for TIB, it contained a well-written essay on consumer rights. It argues that when customers do not make a stand, albeit a polite yet pointed one, they encourage businesses to screw them over. Food for thought...though when my stomach began grumbling, I realized that I also needed food for the tummy.
I looked up after finishing half of the book. It was 12:15. I summoned the nearest waiter and told him to follow up on my order, as it had already been twenty minutes since the first waiter promised that my meal would arrive in fifteen minutes. He went to check on my order, and I am informed that it will only take a few more minutes. "Sandali na lang," he said, and alleged that the kitchen had "just finished defrosting" the chicken.
The waiters were by now giving me wary looks. I hadn’t even gone into bitch mode yet, and I was being treated as though I had already made a scene. Kayo na nga ang me kasalanan pero ako ang gago.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but given the length of time I waited, I believe the scenario is this: they forgot all about my order and were trying to cover it up. Why else would the staff be giving me guilty looks? The guy who appeared to be the manager also disappeared at around this point, so I decided that it would be pointless to get angry.
Instead, at around 12:30, I picked up my stuff and left. Thai In A Box is supposed to be a fast food chain, and no dish on their menu is worth waiting thirty-five minutes for. They’re not that good, and at better restaurants, the service is faster. I know of one restaurant in the same price range, Wah Yuen, with superior food quality, which only takes ten, fifteen minutes-tops-to serve a meal for six people consisting of seven different items. There is no excuse for the ineptitude I was shown. None whatsoever.
The last time I had to wait in a restaurant-Kenny Rogers E. Rodriguez-I was given a complimentary iced tea when the waiting time for my order went over fifteen minutes. The manager served it herself, and she apologized personally to me and to several other customers, and proceeded to explain that the lunch rush was bigger than usual.
In a situation like that, you don’t mind waiting at all. You have been treated with respect, and you have been given the truth about the late order. Sure, some morons will raise a stink about the situation regardless, but I (and a lot of other people like me) am not a moron. I am reasonable; had I not been so, would I have waited the original fifteen minutes for my order?
As I left TIB, I heard the waiter try and call me back. Apparently, he was ready to serve my order. Now why would I want to come back? I was willing to be that the bill would take another thirty minutes, and no bill is worth waiting for.
Was I wrong to leave? I don’t think so. I didn’t raise a scene, and though I would have had a huge audience (and a just reason) for a dramatic scene, I simply left. Someone told me that I should feel sorry for the staff; now the cost of my meal will come out of their pockets.
Why should I even care? Whatever happens is their fault, and was completely their fault to begin with. The customer is always right, remember?
This, I think, is the point that the TIB people will miss completely. I’m willing to bet that right now, I am being discussed in tones of anger, derision, and annoyance by the same people-as if I were the unreasonable one. Ako na nga ang biktima, ako pa ang masama.
They are likely to never own up to the original mistake, and disregard the facts: (1) I ordered the special on their waiter’s recommendation; (2) I cooperated with them and willingly waited the original 15 minutes; and (3) I did not raise a scene at any point of the failed transaction. If they had a customer service representative-which I doubt-that person should have been on top of things and should have noticed the problem.
Oh but I forgot. There is no customer service in the Philippines. The customer is someone hold down and screw in the ass with a ten-foot pole over and over as far as most local businesses are concerned. They do not understand that good will is the best currency, and they never will.
Even if TIB should, by some miracle, get hold of my complaint and act upon it, the damage will have been done. I will not remove this post from this blog. I will never go back to any branch of TIB. And you can be sure that I will let all my friends and relatives know. If Friendster and Six Degrees of Separation are any indication, a little goes a long way…and right now, I really don’t care if TIB suffers as a result of this. Why should I? They certainly didn’t care when I suffered as a result of their actions; and I'm sure that given half a chance (or even none at all), they will cheerfully spit in my food if I ever make the mistake of coming back there.
Sometimes the only way to survive customer disservice in the Philippines is not to care.
I find this a disturbing thought.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Future Urban Legends
I pick up so many stories on a daily basis that it would be a shame not to retell them here. Maybe these will gain the status of urban legends...then come back to nip me on the butt as chain mail. Ha ha.
Kwentong Kutsero I: Fights I Have Seen
Some stories just have to be told. That being said, allow me to state now that I personally witnessed these scenes. Enjoy, and if you know the protagonists, do let me know.
1. Two Stupid Dogs and the Last Word (Greenhills parking lot, Christmas rush, around 2000)
Boy driving noisy car # 1 (you know the type: yung may umuutot na muffler) cuts off boy driving noisy car # 2. They both get out and proceed to hurl invectives at one another. (Transcript follows. If you can’t understand it, try reading it out loud. ‘Nuff said.)
Noisy 1: Puck yu!
Noisy 2: (after some thought) Yah? Wel pak yu tu!
Both boys raise their fists in what they think is a threatening manner. Some posturing, then…
Noisy 1: Puck yu lalo!
Noisy 2: Pak yu talaga! Pak yu pak yu!
Noisy 1: Puck you puck you puck you!
Noisy 2: O yah? Wel pak yu pak yu pak yu en pak yu!
By this time, the bystanders are doubled over in laughter, and people are echoing their words, stressing their inability to say "Fuck" properly. Somehow the fight is resolved, and both climb into their cars.
But Noisy 1 isn’t leaving without the last word, and as Noisy 2 drives off, he yells, "Wel puck yu to infinity!"
2. Honk Dog (Seen in front of Decades bar on Roces Avenue a few days ago)
Didn’t witness the first half of this one, but I caught the middle part. Apparently two guys (not the same as the ones above; they are in plentiful supply, it seems) got into a traffic altercation and decided to have it out.
Guy 1: Are you honking me?
Kwentong Kutsero II: Elaborate Revenges
Everyone’s heard about the person who, upon being robbed of a parking slot by some other jerk, was told to "suck it up." Whereupon the victim slams several times into the offender’s car with a tire iron/the car s/he is driving, and walks away with a casual "Suck it up too, asshole," tossed over the shoulder. (A variation that amuses me is, "Here’s my lawyer’s number. S/he’ll help you suck it up.")
These are the ones which I-or my friends-have personally witnessed.
Why You Should Never Hog Two Parking Spaces
This happened in the SM City parking lot. A Tamaraw hogged two parking spaces and, incredibly, managed to encroach on its neighbor’s space in such a way that the driver of the neighboring car would have to get in through the passenger side. When my friends came back, the Tamaraw was listing to the right. Three tires had been flattened; two appeared to have had the air let out of them while the tire on the side of the inconvenienced neighbor (who had disappeared by then) had been slashed with a knife.
Labels: funny fights, road rage
Monday, October 04, 2004
Just One Number: 56
Last Sunday I accompanied my dad to this big bingo thingie at the World Trade Center. I had apprehensions about going because I've always feared bingo socials. My friend Kitty Kat (obviously not her name but to avoid getting sued someday, names shall be changed) once told me, seriously, of little old ladies in their province who would stretch their crutches out in the aisle to trip up winners of bingo prizes. Shudder.
But I had fun, and I even came close to winning a Honda City. We were cracking jokes; my boyfriend, Polar Bearball (you just gotta meet him) was making fun of the gigantic keys on the stage while he ran errands for us (taking my sister to her car, buying food and drinks, etc.)
When I was one number away from winning the Honda City, our tablemates got pretty excited, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited too. But G 56 simply wasn't to be. I decided to keep the non-winning card as a souvenir--which I promptly lost the next day. But I knew I would remember the day as being one I had a lot of silly fun in. I like silly days. They make good memories.
When I'd gotten over the disappointment of my loss, I headed off to buy ice cream. Ice cream cures all sorrows, after all, and sugar allotment be damned.
On my way to the ice cream stand, I noticed a guy at the other table, pounding his fists and bellowing and generally drawing attention to himself. Turns out he was also waiting for one more number, just like me; and like me, he'd missed it.
Kat Kit, my sister (not to be confused with Kitty Kat), lightened the mood by joking that we were destined for greater things: the lottery, Laban o Bawi, or Powerball (dollars!). And I had a good laugh as I played the remaining games. My dad had a few moments of excitement as he came four numbers close to a blackout for a million bucks.
Polar Bearball observed that every other table had to have someone with a similar sob story, and I found that thought funny.
I practically dragged Polar Bearball out of the place when the last game played out about two hours later. I wanted to eat, to murder some more student papers, and maybe catch the replay of CSI Miami (I have an unfortunate crush on David Caruso. I have no idea why.).
At the table near us, the same guy I'd noticed earlier was still looking pissed. He was still staring at his game card, and stabbing a finger in the direction of the number that was never called.
Labels: funny observations, Wynn
Sunday, October 03, 2004
The Fruit Basket Of Boredom 2
Here's a test that told me where I'd go if I did (as several people have said in the past) go to hell. Heh heh. ;p
the Fifth Level of Hell!Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante's" Inferno Hell Test
the Fifth Level of Hell!Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
| Level | Score |
|---|---|
| Purgatory (Repenting Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers) | Very Low |
| Level 2 (Lustful) | High |
| Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Very High |
| Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious) | Low |
| Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy) | Extreme |
| Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics) | Very High |
| Level 7 (Violent) | High |
| Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers) | Very High |
| Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous) | High |
Labels: katuwaan
Saturday, October 02, 2004
The Fruit Basket Of Boredom 1: I'm Xander!
Friday, October 01, 2004
So I'm Fat. So What? (WARNING: LONG POST!)
(This one's coming out in a book, but I would love to hear reactions to it from fellow oppressed fatties. Or oppressed thinnies-who-think-they're-fatties.)
You Know I Know I’m Fat (So Stop Telling Me That!)
You know what bugs me during social occasions, or random run-ins at the mall, grocery, and other places? When some distant relative, former colleague/classmate, or acquaintance comes up to me and says, “Ang taba-taba mo!” (You’re so fat!) in the same tone of voice s/he would use to exclaim over news of a deadly disease (yours), or a juicy social scandal (involving you), or faux pas (guess whose?). Others decide to give you an insult and a “witticism” in one go, something like, “So, has the pavement cracked under you lately?” Aforesaid wit then cracks up with laughter, while you feign a smile and think happy thoughts to keep from being locked up for Murder One.
You’re not supposed to get mad; if you do, you’re a poor sport, because the joke was about something that was true—after all, you are undeniably big. Apparently, for these kinds of people, the comment is intended as a social greeting, a substitute for “Hello, how are you?” The victim of such remarks is supposed to smile and pretend to be ashamed of his or her size, even when undertones of derision and malice accompany the aforesaid comment on his or her weight.
I’ve had it with both approaches, and I have a question. Why is it “socially acceptable” to insult an overweight person in this manner, while it is bad manners to tell someone, “You’re crippled?” Following the logic of the joker in the situation above, if that joker has a noticeably huge wart, then shouldn’t it be funny to tell that person in return, “You have a wart!” because it is true? I’ve been told that it’s not the same; physical defects and handicaps aren’t funny. Furthermore, retaliation is “mere revenge,” not “true wit.” If you can pry apart the logic in all that, do drop me a line; I know I can’t fathom it.
Why is fat funny, and why is it OK to make fun of fat people while expecting them to be good sports about it? The same people who laugh heartily at fat jokes, however, often refuse to make fun of the handicapped or the ugly to their faces, invoking “decency” and “good manners” as their excuse. Last time I checked, everyone, regardless of race, creed, gender, or avoirdupois, was entitled to a fair amount of decency and good manners from their fellows.
I believe in keeping my country beautiful, so I don’t spit, fart, or urinate in public. I don’t litter, and neither do I run around naked. Yet the way the self-appointed “fat police” talk, you’d think I’d befouled the atmosphere in some singularly unpleasant way.
I’m offended when someone tells me that I am fat in a way that makes fun of me, or in a snotty manner, or in a way calculated to put me down in front of an audience. (By this please note that I exclude those who tell you you're fat but are just tactless and/or clueless. See below for details)Ever notice how people who tell you that you’re fat will do so in a loud voice at a public place? Seems they want people to know that they know I’m fat. Little do they know, I know I’m fat too.
I also know that I am an intelligent and fairly objective person; therefore, my opinions are likely to be well-thought out. So when I say that being fat is also a handicap, be assured that I have a good reason for saying so. I’ve done the research, and I’ve gone to the experts.
People who tell you that you’re fat by way of a social greeting labor under several misconceptions, and one of these misconceptions is that being fat is a deliberate choice rather than the result of a medical condition or some cosmic accident. While chocolate addictions, junk food habits, and overeating certainly do not fall under either category, I’m pretty sure that most people have a reason (albeit maybe not a good one) for being fat—and this certainly isn’t to offend other people with their fatness. (If your sole reason for being fat is to make life miserable for others, trust me, you need help.) So for the enlightenment of those who don’t know why the “taba” comment is offensive (and can’t understand why), here are my explanations. Caution: Harsh language ahead. Bring smelling salts if you like telling people that they’re fat.
a. I am oblivious to the spare tire/s bunched up under my 24-inch waist and am enjoying being fat way too much
Like being fat is easy? Does anybody here think that I gained weight just for the joy of offending everyone who thinks fat people are a travesty? That I looked at my 130 pound self a few years ago and decided that it simply wouldn’t do and I just had to gain an extra 1, 2, 300 pounds? When a person I barely know (or haven’t seen in over a decade, and am not close to) suddenly blurts that “Taba!” phrase, s/he wants me to reply, “Thank you ever so kindly for your help. I never noticed how my resemblance to a killer whale is becoming patently obvious. I am forever in your debt.”
What do these people expect me to do? Smile sheepishly, say, “Oh, you caught me!” then wriggle out of the 44-42-48 fat suit that’s concealing my 36-24-36 body?
Is there anyone out there who seriously believes it is always fun to be fat? Then let me tell you about one of my (many) problems with being fat. When the only places to find ready-to-wear clothes in my size are the Surplus Shop (where the choices are between “tacky but fits” and “looks good fits lousy”) and expensive maternity salons, I know I have a serious problem.
Some friends advise me to try men’s sizes, insisting that unisex can now be feminine (a contradiction in terms if there ever was one). But men’s clothes are built differently for a very important reason: men buy them. Hence, polo buttons strain at the breasts or result in strange necklines. Crotches in men’s slacks that pinch and nip in exactly the wrong places. You get Bozo The Clown denim jeans hems you’ll never be able to pass off for hip-hopping style.
I have a theory about dressing rooms: they were invented by the fashion mafia to shame unsuspecting fatties like me into losing weight. Why else do they reflect an extra 10, 20, 100 pounds? Plus, who is that lumpy person in the mirror? Oh drat, it’s me. I’ve got gravity to thank for that.
When gravity interferes with the body, the effect is called “sagging,” and for some reason, sagging appears to occur best in the breast, stomach, upper arm, and butt regions. These are, by the way, the least flattering places for sagging to occur, and when one is unable to conceal said effects of gravity in aforesaid places, disaster results.
Everyone subscribes to the belief that beauty is only skin deep. Inner beauty and all that yadda-yadda. If that is so, then fat is merely the camouflage under which I conceal my goddess-like interior (and in that case, be afraid. Be very afraid; there’s room in my skin for a pantheon of goddesses).
An interesting comment I get often is this: "Sayang, ang ganda ng mukha mo, pero ang taba mo. (You're pretty but you're fat)" I have no idea what to make of it, so I take it as a compliment. But why should my fatness be the focus of attention instead of my allegedly pretty face?
If the Orca-sized human trash on the Jenny Jones and Jerry Springer shows are convinced that they are beautiful, and that the problem lies in the eye of the beholder, then certainly walrus-sized me can be considered better-looking. Plus, I know I’ve got a better attitude; I don’t feel the need to bare my jumbo-sized booty on national television to find self-fulfillment.
But it is depressing to live in a society where liposuction is a status symbol, and “Salamat, Dok!” is a popular catchphrase. There are no large women who can be looked up to as icons of style, fashion, or whatever in Philippine society, and women like Nanette Inventor are considered objects for ridicule, regardless of their obvious talent. Here, “fat” is right up there with “easy,” “palengkera,” and “nagger” on the list of undesirable traits in a woman.
I think this is because fatness is seen as a sign of weakness, particularly the inability to control one’s appetite for the sake of “looking good.” Animals see weakness as a sign to attack; human animals aren’t much better, except the weapon of choice is the phrase, “Ang taba-taba mo!”
Wish I were in America. There, you can sue McDonald’s for making you fat. (But let's be real here. Like they had a gun to those kids' heads when they ate those burgers and fries?) Pretty but plump women have a viable career as plus-size models. There are plenty of big women (and women considered big but who are simply normal-sized) getting media attention and respect over there: Queen Latifah, Drew Barrymore, Camryn Manaheim, Rosie O’Donnell, Star Jones, Kirstie Alley, and Liv Tyler (Note that I skipped Roseanne Barr. She's scary). I don’t think of them as having “lost” the battle of the bulge; rather, they have decided that the love of one’s body is an important part of the love of the self. I’m sure they still have issues to work through, but what is important is that they’ve decided that their humanity does not rest in how low they can drop the needle on the weighing scale.
b. It is so easy to lose weight!
The immediate corollary to this is, “Any idiot can do it!” Thus, following the same logic, are skinny people idiots? I think not; I happen to know a lot of skinny people. Those who are my friends are blessed with several important things: brains, the ability to overlook my size, and the wisdom to shut up when it comes to giving me advice on losing weight. It is, after all, my body, and they never assume that I’m not trying hard enough. They’ve seen me try. Hard.
I’ve wrestled with trainers and machines in gyms, then gotten shoved into Turkish saunas to sweat out the fats and toxins in my body. I’ve been mauled with “cellulite-dissolving massages” from women who must have been hired from some S&M parlor. I’ve been hooked up to machines that send out mild electric shocks in hopes of banishing my appetite or dissolving fat, and drunk herbal teas that make me set up camp in the bathroom. I’ve gone on diets where packaging of the “food” items tastes better. I’ve been to psychologists; attended seminars; surfed the Net for information; and in desperation, I’ve bought books on weight-loss and followed them. It was only later that I discovered that I have a hormonal imbalance that defeats most of my efforts to lose weight. But good luck explaining that to those kinds of people; they think you’re making excuses.
I know more about weight loss and healthy lifestyles than these Taba-mouthing louts ever will. One ill-intentioned idiot once told me to skip one meal a day, preferably breakfast, to save calories. Another one told me that it was unladylike to exercise; I’d get all these "icky bulges" on my body; it was some time before I figured out she meant “muscles.” I wanted to explain to the former that skipping meals is part of what made me fat in the first place, and to the latter that noticeable muscles are generally taken to be a sign of good health, but decided to save my breath. Pearls before swine, you know.
There’s a good reason why people are told to consult their doctors before beginning a diet, an exercise routine, or some other hazardous activity: because losing weight is a serious undertaking, not for the proverbial faint of heart. The last time I reported to my doctor about my gym activities, she gave me a long lecture on what I had done wrong. I got my period all of a sudden after beginning exercise; several expensive tests later, we discovered that I had polycystitis and needed to ease off on the exercise until I could take the medication which would keep me from bleeding. Unfortunately the medication made me fat and homicidal. Can you can see the merry-go-round this situation ends with?
Motivation is for weight loss is fairly easy; all I have to do is go to a dressing room and try anything on. Or I can try sitting down in your standard movie theater seat. Failing that, I can also strip in front of a mirror and look at my backside (I happen to like the front view, though). Thinking my problem was motivation, my mom offered me a premium of five hundred bucks per pound lost. I made about ten thousand in one month, but I blew it all on whirlwind trips to a doctor (for the dizzy spells), a chiropractor (for those nagging back pains), and a masseuse (for everything else that hurt). My doctor told me to take it easy and to lose, at most, only three to five pounds a month.
Another thing to think about is that it is more expensive to lose weight than it is to gain or maintain it. Take breakfast, a meal which no serious weight-loss aspirant can afford to skip. Low-fat/carbohydrate and sugar-free meal replacements cost the equivalent of a good blouse at Greenhills; is it any wonder that the cheap meals at KFC are hard to resist in these times?
Gyms cost about one-fifth of my monthly salary per month, and don’t get me started on personal trainer’s, nutritionist’s and doctor’s fees. Phooey on fat-reduction pills and treatments; does the word “quack” mean anything to you?
No, the best way to lose weight is to exercise regularly and eat healthy under the supervision of a medical professional. The exercise is free; vigorous housework and walking will do the job fine. But the “eating healthy” and “competent medical supervision” part is no joke to someone on a shoestring budget. Just walk through any Healthy Options store and look at the prices. I bet you’ll find yourself wondering if you can just laugh yourself skinny. (Been there, done that, doesn’t work.)
c. Their comment is made in the spirit of “knowing what’s best” (for whom?)
Doctors are eminently qualified to tell me what’s best for me when it comes to my fat. I have yet to hear one say “Ang taba-taba mo!” in the same spirit as the know-it-alls who think I need help when it comes to my weight. When a friend of mine, Tatel, who is a doctor, found out that I had a high blood sugar level, he advised me to have a full checkup, ultrasound included. He told me to tell my doctor to test for polycystitis, underactive thryroid, and depression, and concluded with, “We doctors cost money. I’m just giving you the shortcuts, to save time and money.”
This guy obviously knew what I needed, and had the best in mind for me. Yet he certainly didn’t feel the need to make a joke at my expense. Words are never louder than actions; people who have to insult you in the name of “what’s best” for you really do not care about you.
We know the truth: the featherbrains who think this way and talk down to you usually want you to understand one thing: you are inferior to them, and they want you to know that. Telling someone they’re fat under the guise of knowing what’s best is, at best, the verbal equivalent of crocodile tears. They are mean-spirited because they are signs of gloating. Hypocrisy by any other name is just as offensive.
If someone wants you to lose weight, s/he can’t do better than my mom. She paid for my medical, food, and gym expenses, and praised me when I lost weight. Now that is good for my body and my soul. I will never subscribe to the belief that an insult can be something good in disguise. I know me better, and I’m telling those know-it-alls now that insults and mocking laughter cannot be seen in any way by an intelligent person as a form of help. If someone feels the need to laugh at me, insult me for my being fat and judge me based on a single aspect of who I am, guess what: I also have the same right. My conclusion is, that kind of a person is soulless and shallow. I can afford to be magnanimous, though, and if you’re ever confronted by this kind of buttwipe, remember that s/he only uses the “Taba!” phrase to put you down as a stopgap for their rampaging insecurities. Take pity on their inability to see that people are worth more than the sum of their parts. Fat is only a single part of what a person is. There’s still the heart, the soul, and the sense of humor…and even then, these only touch the tip of the iceberg of what a person truly is.
Labels: overweight, rants
