Kitty Litter

I confess; I am addicted to certain types of “reality” shows. For Love or Money, Fear Factor, and American Idol get me right in that part of my brain that is best described as “slovenly person sprawled across couch munching on ice cream and chips.” It’s like junk food; you know it’s bad for you but you just can’t stop. So if you detest reality shows, why not click on the link above that says “Next Journal” and go somewhere that might be more entertaining.

(If you’re reading this paragraph, you’re either just as bad as me, or masochistic. Either way, do hang around.)

A while ago, I saw the first audience-elimination round for American Idol. Let me say now that I have a musical ear (and for the wags out there, it does not play tunes, okay?) and some background as a singer. I appreciate good singing, and I can easily tell when someone goes flat or sharp. It’s one of those fairly useless skills I have, unless you can find a use for the following abilities:

1) knowing when a singer has gone off key;
2) the ability to imitate a singer’s vocals and know whether s/he is using the nose, the throat, or the diaphragm;
3) the ability to touch my nose with my tongue (and unless your name is Polar Bearball, you are not seeing a demonstration unless you pay me well);
4) the ability to taste food and know what ingredients have gone into it; or
5) the ability to tell when a student has plagiarized something

If you know how I can make a million bucks off any of the above (or a combination of, or all), then do drop me a line.

Where was I? Oh, yeah…American Idol, and why I’m into it. (Lay off the postcolonial analysis; I’m telling you now that I just enjoy indulging my pintasera side.) People like my singing voice, but I’m not about to give up my day job until you can launder dirty jeans on my washboard abs—which probably means never. I enjoy playing unpaid judge, and I am able to look past the phony animosity between Simon and Paula. I mean, okay, you two, your show rates like chocolate chip ice cream, so cut it out with the cutesy fights.

You knew this was coming: I am about to inflict my choices on you. I’ve only seen and heard the male finalists, but I think this batch is better than the previous ones. I’m just a little disappointed that no Asians made it through this time. Guess they learned their lesson from how Jasmine Trias made it through—despite the presence of better singers—by virtue of the almighty Pinoy vote. (Don’t get me started on how disappointed I am that Pinoys can unite to bring a pretty Pinay to the top of a reality show, yet be unable to appreciate its own musicians, writers, and artists.)

(Warning: From this point onwards, serious knowledge of “American Idol” needed to appreciate point. Here’s another nice link to click if you want to bail now.)

The first singer to impress me was Bo Bice, one of the two “rockers” on the show. Constantine Maroulis has always impressed me as being a little too cocky, though his being a mucho hottie makes up for it. I don’t know the title of what Bo sang, but I found myself moving to the beat. I like his quirky looks, his cool voice, and his calm, nice-guy demeanor. (The guys I like in the show usually have long hair. It's Polar Bearball's fault. Too bad he'll be skewered by Simon, Randy, and Paula if he ever tries out. Hehe. ^_^) Hope Bo goes far in the competition...hell, if he won, that'd be great!

Then came Anwar Robinson. It was not that he sang what is practically Polar Bearball’s and my theme song—Moon River—it was how he sang it. He took a definite risk by picking a weird song, and pulled it off without too many annoying, Christina Aguilera/Celine Dion-type vocal acrobatics. I think he has a long way to go, and if he wins, it's be a credit to the show. Plus, he’s cute. (Do you really need me to explain what my criteria are?) I have doubts that he'll win, though...not because of lack of talent, but because America tends to be mean towards black contestants. (Remember how Fantasia, La Toya, and Jennifer often wound up in the bottom 3? Argh.)

Judd Harris would have been a Menudo member, had he been born a few years earlier (I can't believe he's almost my age; he looks so high school-ish!). He’s got cute, clean-cut looks, enthusiasm, and such a great voice, one he’s got excellent control over. He went out and performed another song whose title I do not know, but his attitude was infectious. He was clearly enjoying himself, and he had the audience eating out of his hands. And did I say he was cute? I think he'll be a good Idol too.

Mario Vazquez did well, though his choice was kind of safe. He is cute though, and I bet he’ll make it through. His delivery was so reminiscent of former Menudo member Robby Rosa that I got a bit creeped out.

One of my bets didn't do very well. Anthony Fedorov, whom I think is a blonde Harry Potter-type guy, has been somewhat inconsistent. Sayang; he's got that voice that makes you want to say "yes" once he sings, "Will you be mine?" He went off on some notes of "Hold On To The Nights" but recovered after a while, which is more than I can say for Constantine, who kind of blew it with "Kiss From A Rose." Sigh. And I thought those two were in a good position to blow the competition away. Well, unpredictability is fun too.

My dark horse is Scott Savol. The guy just looks funny, and seems a bit weird, but you never know. Good voice, though.

May I register at this point my annoyance with Paula Abdul? She’s the judge who encourages mediocrity, applauding even contestants who went off key (let’s hear Constantine’s piece again, and you tell me what was wrong with it). All I ever hear from her is “Shut up,” directed at Simon, and it’s getting tiresome coming from a woman who can’t sing. I have no idea why she’s a judge; if you’ve ever heard her squeak her way through “Straight Up,” (machine-adjusted to get her in tune; if you've ever heard her live, you'll know that her singing is both nasal and throat-oriented. Gaah) you’ll know why I think Britney Spears is more talented. I used to think Paula was the nice, cute judge, but she’s starting to get abrasive. Someone tell the producers to tell her to cool it with the act.

I adore Simon, and I love waiting for what he has to say. (I do feel though that he's selling out by allowing himself to be part of the playacting with Paula. I mean, it's so obvious.) I believe that, as a teacher and a workshop facilitator, some people have to be put down so that they can learn. If we mollycoddle everyone and applaud all efforts, we will become people who cannot appreciate true talent.

(If you have a short attention span, skip ahead as the next 4 paragraphs contain strong language, violently unsubstantiated personal opinions, and a potentially boring sermon.)

I mean, just look at Sandara Park. While I find her appealing and cute, I can’t help but think of the talent I’ve seen on the legitimate theater stage which deserves the mileage she’s been given. Certainly it’s fun watching her, but we also send out a dangerous message by giving her our approval—it’s okay to be talentless so long as you’re cute.

Too many people take up Creative Writing classes and think they’re good just because their high school teachers said so. They get depressed when I tell them that their work sucks. But why should I lie and tell them otherwise? I’m already nice as it is; would they like to try the Rene Villanueva school of rejection? The 1992 UP Summer Writer's Workshop fellows told me about how he once calmly tore apart a writing fellow’s manuscript—literally—then handed it back to the poor fellow, telling him to plant it in the backyard as it might spawn some kamote. Oooh, ouch.

When I tell someone their work sucks, I always tell them what to do to improve it, who to read, and so on. I don’t put people down for fun in class; my mandate is to teach, and learning does not always exist in a warm, pink, fuzzy place. Sometimes you have to learn from the proverbial school of hard knocks—even if you think that you don’t have to go through it.

I used to think that way, and when I discovered that I was merely another idiot in the pack of idiots we were in college, I decided that I would be better. Not to “show” anyone, per se, but rather, to prove to myself that I could be better if I put my head to it. I’d like to think that writing is a continuous process of learning, and that I have many more things to read and learn before I can say that I am a brilliant writer. Good, yes; let’s not be falsely modest here. Brilliant? That’s what I’m working towards, and I still have miles to write before I spawn a critically acclaimed work.

Let’s get back to AI, then. Simon tells contestants what’s wrong with their work so that they can improve themselves. Telling all contestants that they are brilliant really doesn’t help anyone; in class workshops, I flunk people who write on their copies: “This was nice, I really could relate to this, I like it, wow galling!” Puhleez. Praise is like junk food; there’s no real substance to it. But even the worst criticism can teach you something so long as it is valid…and I say this as someone who was once advised to improve my teaching skills by losing weight.

Do I have any predictions? Hard to tell at this point; last year, I thought it was going to be an all-black showdown in the AI finals—I still maintain it was a travesty to kick out George Huff, Jennifer Hudson, and La Toya London in favor of (that cute) John Stevens and Jasmine Trias. But I wouldn’t be surprised if we get a Latino for this year’s Idol. Trying to second-guess the American public and the judges is several parts of the fun, so it’s a case of, “We’ll see.” And on Wednesday, I will see the rest of the eliminations, so hey.

>^..^<

The I section of the Bulletin asked me, as an educator, to list the books which I think kids should be reading today. "How old?" was my first question. "You decide."

So I went nuts thinking of all the authors I would love to inflict on students should I have my own university. Then a pause for a reality check: when I was younger, I didn't like being told what to read. I missed out on LOTR in the fifth grade and Dune in the sixth because overeager fans were pressing the books on me. I began reading books which authors mentioned in passing, or which people mentioned that they like, but didn't force on me. I was more interested when people told me what they liked, instead of when they told me what I ought to be reading.

So after a while, I thought of the books I would like to have read when I was seventeen. LOTR is not on this list, because I know I was bored by it as a kid, and only learned to appreciate it when I was a teacher. Harry Potter Book 1 is as far as I'll go; I feel the Time Turner in Book III ruined everything, and I am beginning to be disappointed by the way the writing has become too fan-oriented. Of course I can say that, but I still recognize that Rowling has sold over 200 million times the amount my own book has, and I know I'll be in line to buy the sixth book if only to know which way Harry's life is going.

Anyway, here's a partial list, chosen for availability of the books and accessibility. Certainly I can't recomment the P.J. O'Rourke books, mainly because I acquired mine by pawing through Book Sales. I decided on my choices by thinking of the classic "If you were stuck on an island..." scenario. These books are friends, and bear much rereading well.

1. A Wizard of Earthsea (trilogy), by Ursula le Guin. I always liked Ged, and I think he was a partial influence on Harry Potter. Though I know it may sound boring to others, I did like hearing about Ged growing up and learning about his powers.

2. Dune, by Frank Herbert. I have always been blown away by this book. Critics may have lambasted what came after it; I'll only agree insofar as "God Emperor of Dune" is concerned. But a good book is like a great work of art; no matter how many times you come back to it, you will always find something new to marvel at...and Dune is such a book.

3. Smaller and Smaller Circles, by F. H. Batacan. Though I know that the forensic parts of this book are few and far between, it still represents an achievement for Philippine literature.

4. The Best of Barfly by Butch Dalisay. Ooh, the man can write, and how! His wit and humor are counterbalanced by the humility and down-to-earth register of his tone.

5. Angels and Demons, and The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. Say what you will about the man, but it is a good thriller. I'd rather that people read this instead of the drivel Sidney Sheldon turns out. I know Brown has become formulaic, and is somewhat losing his touch, but these are still good reads.

6. The Sneaky Pie Mysteries by Rita Mae Brown. I know the writing can be a little inconsistent, and the back story of the major characters changes every now and then, but it is still a charmingly written series. Plus the lead characters include cats!

7. Stephen King's early novels, up to Pet Sematary, and his novella collection, Different Seasons. Yes, he has sold out, but that doesn't change the brilliance of his earlier writing. I remember dragging my mattress to my parents' room after reading The Shining, and being unable to sleep after Pet Sematary, thus proving that your best bet for scaring yourself is your own imagination.

8. Douglas Adam's The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Trilogy, the first three books. Yes, it's a trilogy composed of five books, and I don't like the last two. But no one can compare with the belly laughs caused by the idea of the Joo Janta sunglasses, which turn opaque at the slightest hint of danger. Heh, heh.

9. Isabel Allende's The House of the Spirits. My first trip into magical realism came with this book. One Hundred Years of Solitude disturbed me, but Allende's book took my breath--and sleep--away. I remember being absent from school for a whole day just because of this book.

10. Any Dilbert collection. Though not everyone works, everyone has, though, felt oppressed and downtrodden at some time or another. Viva Dogbert!

11. The Sandman series by Neil Gaiman. I dare any moron who says that comics can't be literature to read this. It is beautiful, and in my office, I have printed out a copy of his ode to Death (from "The Sound Of Her Wings") and I read it every time I feel depressed.

12. Erma Bombeck's books. Any of them. This woman taught me that humor is the best coping mechanism...and showed me how writing becomes less of a chore when humor is involved.

13. The Far Side collections, by Gary Larson. Though it can be hard to "get" what the joke is, the sense of fulfillment that comes when you see the laugh is unbeatable. Plus, it represents an interesting marriage between pictures and words.

14. Calvin and Hobbes collections, by Bill Watterson. If you think that it's merely about a small boy and his stuffed tiger, you'll be surprised by the philosophical questions they gently raise for the reader to ponder.

15. Anne Rice's vampire books. Lush and seductive, these books got me interested in erotica. Though it is an overly popular series, its popularity takes nothing away from the writing quality.

16. Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo's Tales for a Rainy Night and Catch a Falling Star collections. Her writing is magical, and I don't say this just because she is my thesis adviser.

17. Any collection of poetry by Sharon Olds, as she writes in a way that is neither precious nor cutesy, yet it still works on many beautiful levels of meaning.

I can't think of more off the top of my head, but if you think I have committed a travesty with my choices, or if you want to add anything, just click on the comments below! ^_^

>^..^<

Ever received mail from friends, relatives, acquaintances, and the occasional stranger with a gazillion other email addresses which you need two hours to scroll past to get to the actual message? Said actual message will contain something wildly inaccurate, mildly amusing, or downright misleading (i.e., copied from an actual chain mail I received: “Cola drinks can MELTS ur BRAIN!!! If U LAUGHED when YOUR drinking and it GO up TO youre’ NOSE!!! ITS’ TRUE!!! This have HAPPEN to FRIEND of COUSIN of MOTHER of WOMAN who work have with UNCLE, my GRANDFATHER in PATTAGONIA! TIME MAGAZINE SAID SO!!!”)

Aside from the truckload of exclamation points!!! CAPITALIZED WORDS!!! and misspelled words (!!!), they invariably end this way:

“Do not keep this message. This message must leave your e-mail in 96 hours. Please send ten copies and see what happens in four days. If you don't, then you will never receive good sex again for the rest of your life. You will eventually become celibate, and your genitals will rot and fall off. This is no joke! Send copies to people you think need sex (who doesn't?). Don't send money, as the fate of your genitals has no price. Since the copy must tour the world, you must send it. This is true, even if you are not superstitious.”

Hmm. Last time I checked, good sex was a shared experience between two people, not something handed out and received like flyers in malls.

I checked the “sender” field, and it happened to have come from someone I’ve been good friends with since high school. I panicked. Had I done something to deserve this? Did I sing badly at her wedding? Did I say something she didn’t like?


Allow me to explain my reaction. Whether or not we believe in chain mail, those we receive that contain implied (or outright) threats to our health, sanity, happiness, sex lives, dietary habits, and other things we hold equally dear—should we fail to pass them on—are subliminally disturbing. I mean, hey, this came from a friend. I wish my friends the best of everything most of the time, and I’d imagine I have the right to expect reciprocation from them. I don’t mind if they forward me funny quotes, silly jokes, and creepy pictures; so long as they don’t come with the ominous phrase, “Pass this on to x people,” I’m okay with friends flooding my inbox. But when a friend sends me chain mail that threatens a horrible punishment for something I haven’t even done yet, I just have to wonder.

It’s easy to get chain mail from strangers; I simply delete them. If I do not believe that something has power over me, then the thing has no power over me, unless it be taxes, VAT, or something equally nasty. But to receive chain mail from I consider a friend bothers me. I took up a few units of psychology in college, and I know that many unconscious motivations lie behind many of our seemingly innocuous acts. “Sharing” chain mail with other people is one such act; it’s like inviting friends to play catch with a poisonous snake and throwing the snake at them without warning to show that you’re not taking “no” for an answer.

I don't know 10, 100, 1 million people to forward chain mail to (and I know even less who will be happy to receive it in this era of viruses); if I did, I ought to be in multi-level marketing and you should all be very afraid. Why waste time on chain mail with mere possibilities of good and bad luck when I could be exploiting you to buy the world?

Kidding aside, why would I want to take the chance that the threat might come true for a friend who’s too busy to pass chain mail on? Plus, I have to pass it on in what feels like 5 seconds. Not that I have anything better to do with my time, but I'd rather read about the toilet habits of orangutans or, better yet, the latest nasty comment Simon has made on “American Idol.” If you’ve never heard him say something biting to some lousy contestant, then you are missing a life-enriching (read: Thank God there’s someone more pathetic than me…a highly validating thing to say to yourself) experience. I’d rather have a life-enriching experience than pass on mail that will make the recipient question my intentions. What happens if I don’t open my email within 96 hours? Even if I wanted to pass the chain mail on, the deadline has passed. Thus I will be condemned (by something I never wanted and never did) to be loveless, friendless, sexless, and godless for the rest of my life. Excuse me, but I feel existential angst followed by existential angsty pouting coming on.

This leaves me with a problem. I'm mildly superstitious, and I believe that if a something causes me no harm, then there is a teensy possibility that it might do me some good. Conversely, I believe that there is always a chance that, given my queer brand of luck, the threat at the end of chain mail sent by a friend might come true. Chain mail has no power over me when it comes from strangers, but if it comes from a friend, it acquires a certain cachet, the kind that imbues it with a mystical, personal energy. Thus it becomes something like a virtual bomb; images of Yosemite Sam juggling three bombs (all ready to explode) handed him by Bugs Bunny come to mind.

What to do, then? I can’t send chain mail to my boyfriend Polar Bear; I certainly want to have a happy sex life with him, and since he never forwards chain mail, oh dear, think of the consequences. I’m afraid my mom will pass on this kind of chain mail; I just know it will come back to bite me in the patootie and I’ll have to repeat the whole vicious cycle. My dad is only just beginning to discover the Internet, and he doesn’t have 10 email addresses he can inflict chain mail on, unless sending the same drivel 10 times to my uncle—practically his only correspondent—counts. I want to keep my friends, and because of this, I want them to be happy, healthy, and to have joyful sex lives with their life partners. (So if you ever receive chain mail from me, chances are high that you're not on my Christmas list.) I have a huge collection of email addresses of my students—both current and former—but it’s unethical to send it to them. That some of them might deserve the bad luck is a given, but then I'd have to deal with bad karma. Life is unfair; what can I say?

Me, I'd send chain mail to people who pissed me off; if the damned threats have the tiniest chance of succeeding, then far be it for me to keep them from the proper targets. Hmm, must begin listing down the addresses of people I detest. Do Bin Laden or the rapists in Munti have email addresses? Or maybe it’s time to open an account with a certain free email server which comes with automatic spam, and sign up for all those free offers. Given how pathetic that free email provider’s anti-spam protection is, all I have to do is troll through the senders’ addresses on the spam I’ll receive and voila! Email addresses galore for the picking, and since they’re spammers, no bad karma involved!

I think too few people understand the psychological implications of chain mail. Allow me to put it this way: would you enjoy pushing your best friend into a vat of steaming excrement while expecting the same friend to climb out and do the same to other people? (If your answer is yes, then perhaps the Abu Sayyaf wants you for a friend.) The Nazis were masters at using implied rewards to manipulate people into turning on others whom they held dear in life. We don’t think of it that way, but chain mail perpetuates precisely because of this implied system of threats and rewards. Should we then allow it to flourish?

When this column came out last week, I bought five copies for the joy of seeing my name and ideas in print. So did most of my friends and relatives (albeit in lesser quantities). Therefore, by the logic of chain mail, all I have to do now is sit back and wait for my good luck to come. And if you want that luck passed on to you, why not email this column to 10 friends in the next 96 hours? Better yet, go out and buy five copies of my next column in the Manila Bulletin (the Wednesday after the next one), and be assured that the universe will give you your just rewards.

>^..^<

My results for this test refuse to display properly here; I think it's Blogger! Anyway, if you want to know how tortured an artist you are, click here.

How I came out at 61% is beyond me. Wait...if you count sickly, accident-prone and clumsy, well, the test makes sense.

I know I haven't posted lately, but I haven't been well. I'm having trouble with my excessive bleeding; (warning: dirty joke ahead) I should rent myself out to some vampire, I think. I get dizzy, and need iron supplements.

But iron supplements won't account for the bruise on my right elbow. Geniuses like me use ornamental chairs to hang new curtains; geniuses like me wind up asking select students the next day to say I'm sick and to log on to my work journal for instructions/threats/whatever.

The bad part is, it looks like my elbow simply has libag. If it only had turned a glorious purple, I'd have a war scar. As is it's just an itchy souvenir of stupidity. Sigh.

Am posting replies to comments in a bit. Thanks, people!

On a side note, I'm only 50% evil genius. I guess that makes me a half-assed dictator. Heh heh.


>^..^<

I didn't even know I was tortured until I took this! >^..^< Unless you count being accident-prone, that is. Heh heh.

I've been agonizing over a column title for some time now. I toyed with the title, "The Goddess of Ordinary Things," but that was too precious and pretentious. "Kitty Litter" sounded like it belonged to the pet page, and no one's going to read a column named after me as I am not infamous enough for name recall. I wanted the title to be unpretentious and suggestive of ordinary yet whimsical things.

I was stumped.

Then Polar Bearball, who's given the matter just as much thought as I have, came up with one I loved. "The Scratching Post." It incorporates my love for cats, the whimsical yet ordinary thing, and so much more.

Mmm. Maybe Polar Bearball has a career in advertising? Heaven forfend.

===

Am feeling a bit sheepish right now as I appear to have caused a small hullaballoo at the Bulletin office a while ago. I went over to visit Y and C, both former victims--er, students--roped into slaving away for the Bulletin, and got carried away, shooting my mouth off and by gawd I was not firing blanks! I told them of how people at rival newspapers mocked that particular (now defunct) section, how teachers in Ateneo and La Salle made fun of it and threatened to use it in their grammar correction exams, and so on.

(Looong aside: Context is necessary here. When my friends or the people I like/love are in trouble, I go on the warpath. I doubt that little bitch named Rosary from St. Theresa's in 1999 is likely to bug my sister ever again, as I came downstairs at 6 in the morning (an ungodly hour for me) and screamed at her to stop bullying and extorting from my sister. Given that her dad was a cop, I must've looked horrifying, or been truly convincing; but since I'm certainly the last thing anyone [even Polar Bearball] could ever call a "morning come-hither" beauty, I suppose it was the latter combined with the threat to hunt her and her family down. So I got carried away. So sue me. Now back to the story.)

Turns out that one of the lousy writers I was mocking was right there. (Can you say "foot in mouth," boys and girls?)

While I'm not sorry for what I said (sample of their writing follows for proof, see ** below) about their writing prowess (or lack thereof) and their putrid attitudes, I am sorry for getting the editor and Y into trouble with them. They may not be smart but they are devious and mean creatures.

Here's a sample: they spread rumors about our editor, J, and called up people in the business to claim that she was "bossy" and was trying to "steal" "their" section. When J confronted them about this--as some of the people they called up were her friends--they denied everything. They were rude, crude, and vile.

That's why I thought what I did was funny...until the pests decided to pick on Y, C, and J in retaliation for me telling the truth about them, and laughing about it. For good measure, they password-locked the computers at their section to prevent work from continuing! Sad part is, they don't get the message. They haven't been given assignments for weeks; they're being thrown to one of the bad beats no one wants--the local police beat--and they're the laughingstock of their counterparts at other newspapers.

I volunteered to talk to them and set them straight, but Y says they don't deserve it. Worse, C is egging me on, enjoying the torture I inflicted with every choice, mocking word. I was trying to punish them for all they'd done to J, Y, and Marbs. Smart idea. As in.

"Never argue with idiots; they bring you down to their level and beat you with experience." I should've listened to Dilbert. I shouldn't have tried to go down to their level. Now I have to ask (a la Vice President Matthews in "My Fellow Americans"): "Who's the idiot now?"

========

** Here's a sample of their writing (names omitted)

Applying the ‘Alice in Wonderland’ syndrome, showbizness is often viewed as an overwhelming maze where everyone who cares to dip their toes in the water often gets lost – not entirely physically (although it’s possible) but emotionally, spiritually and yes, mentally as well. The whole glitz and glamour can get so confusing that players of their complicated game begin to question who they really are. They get so mixed up with the whole mess that spectators will never know whether they’re talking to a real person or a mere mask.
Still, take them away from the spotlight and talk to them without the affecting awe of a fan, and you’ll discover (or rediscover) that they’re still human after all.

Take Jessa Zaragoza as an example, whom we believe no longer needs an introduction. We all know the labels or the juicy tidbits on her… The Sexy Star…The Jukebox Queen…The Other Half of Singer-turned-politician-turned-singer Dingdong Avanzado… The Former Jessa Quintanar of That’s Entertainment… The Diva… Yada-yada, yada-yada. Y’know naman in showbiz, (un)fortunately, you can’t hide a thing, not even a secret.

This comes from the cover of my book, and it's weird how I *do* look like this. I should be holding a gray cat, since I have several...yet since the orange cat is so Furuba, I have no problem with that. >^..^<

If you're bored on Wednesday, Feb. 9 (Kung Hei Fat Choy!) and have P 20 to spare, why not pick up a copy of the Manila Bulletin and check out the new section called "I"? You'll find a column there. It's mine. This was shameless plugging.

I have no idea as to what to call it yet, but "Kitty Litter" just sounds wrong in a newspaper which has a pet section. I want to incorporate the idea of the ordinary, that I'm not going to be a flag-waving kind of columnist, but "The Goddess of Ordinary Things" is too long and too pretentious :( Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

I was talking to Luis Katigbak and Orange de Guzman, who both will start columns there as well. None of us are using our real photos. Interesting. Luis is using a Photoshop-warped photo, while I'll be using Robert Magnuson's caricature of me (posted above). The writing of the column was easy; it was picking the title and agonizing over the photo that took a lot of time, heh heh.

I need a home! I love this little kitty, but she has no permit at my lola's house. See how cute she is? Would anyone want to give her a home just in case I can't convince my lola to let me keep her? (My Meow she banished to Parañaque already, and I don't know if I can stand the heartbreak of getting attached to this little girl.) I haven't given her a name; names have power, and once I do, I might start to love this little thing. Just reply to me. >^..^<

When I was first approached to write a column for what was to be the revamped youth section* of the Manila Bulletin, I was amused.

(*Aside: They had to get rid of what I dubbed the "Seven Dwarfs": a bunch of pretentious idiots who think they are good writers, wala namang binatbat. For hilarity, click here and read the first two paragraphs. Fashion victims pa sila to boot! Section lost credibility for being hip and cool; bad writing and silly topics will do that. I heard that people at the Inquirer and the Star would open the Bulletin just to read that section and laugh their heads off. Oh the shame.)

After all, I’ve finally reached what is, to most teens, the twilight zone: my thirties. But when the editor, Joyce Fernandez, insisted that they also catered to young adults (of which I am still nominally a member, or so she said), I agreed, if only to show myself that I wasn’t headed for fuddy-duddyhood yet.

It comes as no surprise that it took me some time to write this column. What could I say that would appeal to young adults, teens, and (gasp) adults like me? When you think about it, the answer is, “Not much.” I bet you get enough of that from your parents (regardless of your having a wife and kids, ne?), and I doubt I have ever met anyone who honestly enjoys listening to parental sermons (unless your parent happens to be a stand-up comic and a good one, in which case you’re getting a free performance). I should know; my mom still thinks I can’t be trusted with myself, and given the mundane insanity my life is prone to, she might just be right.

Nobody wants to hear a sermon on values and morals and other “important things” either. Our parents cover that, after all, and if they’re not around, everyone else will want to tell you what to do: your friends, relatives, random strangers, and the ads on radio and TV. The latter can be very persuasive; I am a sucker for the words “new,” and “improved.” That’s why I avoid infomercials, especially at three in the morning; I’m afraid of what I, the original uto-uto, might buy.

But to write things like “Seize the day, young one!” or “Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country,” would insult any intelligent reader; like you need me to figure those clichés out? That would also take away my reader's individuality. Sure, we share experiences and insights, but shoving it down a reader's throat is just wrong.

Each generation likes to think of itself as being individual, and no one likes to be told what to do. We are told that every person is special in a unique way. Which now begs the question I’m sure you’ve asked yourself at one time or another: if everyone’s special, wouldn’t that make all of us ordinary? (Drop me a line if you can sort out the logic in that statement.)

Yet, despite the preoccupation with being “special” and “individual,” how many of us are dying (in some cases, literally) to fit in? A majority of my students show up in round-neck shirts paired with jeans. The girls are on diets while the boys are busy chasing the girls. Everyone—myself included—has a Nokia phone, and I’ve actually overheard kids whining in the corridors about not having the latest model and comparing their situation to that of kids starving in the streets. (Are Nokias edible? Hmm, mine tastes kinda like plastic.) Everyone has to have the “in” clothes and gear, and we laugh at people who do not fit our idea of what “normal” is, despite the fact that there really isn’t a satisfactory definition of what a “normal” person is.

If you think I’m going to launch into a lecture at this point, well, you’re wrong. I won't lie; I was tempted. But what can I say that hasn’t been said before, and said better by someone else?

I think we’re losing track of what it really means to be an individual…and if you think I’m going to define that here, the answer is no. Someone who is truly an individual doesn’t need someone else to define the term for him or her; he or she simply is. Perhaps we are afraid to be individual because individuals do not worry much about what others say about them…and that’s difficult, because we like belonging to groups and fitting in. It's the fear factor; to be individual entails an almost painful amount of self-honesty, and few of us are willing to invest that much in ourselves. It's easier to take ourselves for granted; I, for one, don't think I would really like to know why I am prone to strange situations.

If I could meet the girl I was at seventeen, I would tell her to enjoy herself and to stop worrying about being uso, fitting in, fitting into my clothes (at 5'5 and 127 pounds, I wasn't what you'd call fat, but I believed I was. So I gave up) or all the other things I worried about and cried over then.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” is just one of the clichés I am beginning to understand now. I would like to play the Mad Magazine game again without being embarrassed about what onlookers would say…just as I did at seventeen. I would like to be able to roll down the sides of the Sunken Garden in UP Diliman, laughing and screaming all the way; to eat fishballs and not worry about my diet or whatever toxins are in the things; to rent the bump cars at the amusement park and play with my blockmates. I would like to not have to worry about BIG issues and BIG things yet, because we do, after all, have paid professionals to do the worrying for us. They write newspaper columns.

But I won’t be doing any of these things anytime soon, because I am a GROWNUP, and grownups are expected to behave in a certain way and to do certain things and not to enjoy other things.

Wait. Who says that I can’t do the things I like anymore? Wait, it’s me. I’m afraid to be laughed at, to be called “weird,” and to be told I’m silly. It seems that growing up means becoming ordinary.

But somewhere in my mind that seventeen year-old girl is still doing all those things. I think I hear her calling me to join in.

I think that every teenager deserves time to enjoy being a teen. I think that teenagers should sometimes stop trying to be grownups so that they will enjoy themselves, so that they won’t find themselves, a decade or so later, straining to hear their seventeen year-old selves, wishing they could hear more, and wishing they had the nerve to just be.