Kitty Litter

(Wrote this after seeing a great post in Edrie's journal about roleplaying. Now Edrie is a serious roleplayer, the kind I wish I could campaign with. But...)

I love role-playing games, and my greatest disappointment is that it’s hard to get our old TS:SI group together for a game. Suffice it to say that GM mercy plays a huge role in our games as our long-suffering GM, Polar Bearball, merely has to give us a situation, then he sits back and watches us screw ourselves over. I think he’s given up all hope of actually running an intelligent, authentic campaign, and I don’t blame him.

Serious role-players would be appalled by our group, and I apologize on my group’s behalf. It takes at least a teaspoon of brains to play Dungeons and Dragons, which is probably why we have never attempted to sully the game thus. Certainly the macho men I game with aren’t going to enjoy the Sweet Valley High role–playing/board game about getting to the prom which I started with.

If you’re familiar with the comic strip Knights of the Dinner Table, imagine five Bobs and Daves all together, with no Sarah or Brian to slow us down. We don’t have a rules lawyer (that being our GM, unfortunately), and with the occasional exception of the Brujah Louie and Marty the Martian Solution, we’re a happy bunch of “shoot now, ask questions when?” idiots.

Here’s a sample. Once, on a recon mission, our characters were supposed to infiltrate an African village, take photos proving some kind of perfidy, and leave. Sneak’ n ’peek, in game terms. Of course, when we made our elaborate plans to get it, we all forgot that none of our characters was black enough to pass as an African. One of us wanted to requisition a missile launcher, and despite having a strength of 47, intended to haul it every inch of the 120 miles between the base and the rebel village “just in case.” Except for me, everyone forgot to bring water. None of us remembered to check our equipment, and on our way out, our fearless leader was barely prevented from leaving eight ounces of C4 on a gun in a machine gun nest. You of course will have figured out by now that only one of us remembered to bring a camera, and nobody thought of bringing spy cameras and recorders. The GM wound up having his non-player character (NPC) do all the dirty work; the poor mook wound up having to be Rambo and McGyver.

Lines overheard during the game: “Can I blow this up NOW?” “I said, no explosions!” “Okay, then how about if I just set it on fire?”

Here’s another conversation: “I’m bored. Maybe I should do a Braveheart. Let’s moon the village!” “It’s midnight. Who’s gonna see you?” “Yeah, well, but it’s the thought that counts!”

“Did you bring something to eat?” “Eat? Uh…no.” “Think anyone will notice if I ask Louie to snipe at one of the chickens, and I get it and roast it?”

Had we been real soldiers, we would have died, and if by sheer dumb luck we’d made it back alive, we ought to have been court-martialed and hung thrice for our boneheadedness.

But it’s the fun we have playing the game that makes it worthwhile. It’s not pretending to be soldiers that turns us on, although it is a big thrill for other TS:SI players, and I know other, better players who do the research for spectacular authenticity.

No matter how stupid we can get (i.e., “Hey, I’m going to throw my Rambo knife across the Grand Canyon!”), our GM is so tolerant that he just rolls his eyeballs and lets us morons go wherever we like. I think it’s the sense of having fun together rather than the actual game itself that makes us happy and eager for the next session. It’s gotten so bad that, whenever Louie, Carding, Jhun, Martin, and I find ourselves together with the Polar Bearball, we begin chanting, “S.I.! S.I.! S.I.!” We’ve even gone as far as bribing him with food to run a game.

The last time we played was over a year ago. I miss pretending to be a special forces operative, albeit a completely unworthy one. I miss “watching” the other players fall out of trees, pick up bombs thinking they were litter, and wading into combat zones to retrieve lucky rabbit’s feet. I miss blowing on the dice and begging them to roll low percentiles. But most of all, I miss laughing until my tummy is sore.

So Polar Bearball, when’s the next game? :D

Thank you to everyone who condoled with me over the loss of Kito. It made things so much easier. Blessings upon all of you; may your next bad day be years away. :)

Y. H. H. B. T.* Moment 1
* You Had to Have Been There

Here’s how one conversation went between Polar Bearball and me a few weeks ago:

(Context: There is a VTES card game at my house, and Polar Bearball, being the nastiest combat player, is being ganged up on at his table. Thus he is quite busy when…)

Kitty Litter (KL): Honey, the cat is at the window.

Polar Bearball (PB): (grunt)

KL: He has to be fed. You have to bring him in.

PB: In a bit, dear.

KL: His food is in the ref, okay?

PB: (distracted while taking his turn at the card game) No problem. I bring the cat in and put him in the ref.


Y. H. H. B. T.* Moment 2

I love watching Spongebob Squarepants. I like sitting in front of the TV and waiting for my IQ to drop to Patrick’s level. Everything is good and beautiful when you watch Spongebob; your perspective changes, and you discover that, in fact, a college degree is the worst hindrance to your education. Seriously!

My friend Marty watched it with me a few days ago and pointed out that I watched the show with my mouth agape and a silly expression on my face. I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I think I'll avoid mirrors whenever Spongebob is on TV.

I wasn’t the first to discover Spongebob’s interesting side effects, though. Two brothers, whom I’ll call Ernie and Bert, told me this story of what happened when Ernie saw a Spongebob episode with a little ditty about how to tie your shoelaces.

Seems Ernie enjoyed the song so much that he wound up memorizing it. As anything in Spongebob’s world, let’s just say that the directions in the song were, er, different from the norm.

As Bert and Ernie were preparing to leave for work the next day, Ernie wandered into Bert’s room with a forlorn look on his face.

Ernie: You have to help me tie my shoelaces!

Bert: Huh?

E: You know that Spongebob Squarepants song, the one I was singing yesterday?

B: Unfortunately.

E: Well, I memorized it and…

B: I know.

E: …I forgot how to tie my shoelaces.

They say that the best way to deal with grief is to express it. I think this may be true.

Kito was put to sleep at 8:05 p.m. today.

I don’t even remember the name of the vet clinic we brought him to. I can’t remember the name of the two female vets who helped us. All I remember were their kind eyes, and their sympathy.

Last week, he was still strong. The vet my dad took him to said it was just a touch of a cold, and that Kito would recover soon. What the vet failed to take into account was Kito’s age. Kito picked up the virus from somewhere, and passed it on to Siopao. Siopao was up and pawing through our trash in three days; Kito never fully recovered.

He started going stiff last night, and his last independent movement was to move to the bathroom after I’d placed him in my dad’s chair. He hadn’t moved his bowels all day, and it had been two days since he last ate. We were trying to force-feed him multivitamins, to no avail.

When I got home today, he was so stiff, his front paws couldn’t be moved or bent anymore. His eyes refused to close, and they were dirty. Clearly, he was suffering. My dad fled the house, and I suspect it was because he didn’t want to have to make the decision about euthanizing poor Kito. I knew Kito was suffering when I called his name and stroked his chin, and he could no longer meow or respond to us moving his limbs. He was dying, but I thought that getting a second opinion might help. Now that I think about it, that may have been my way of denying the truth. Kito had never been sick before; he was always healthy, and I assumed he’d always be there. I grew up with him, and losing him was something I couldn’t face.

I had to hold together on the drive to the vet clinic. I couldn’t cry in front of the vet; that would be “pussy” of me. Or so I said.

The vets at the clinic where he was euthanized noticed that he was already going cold. I asked, had we done something wrong? No, the older one told us. His age worked against him; a 90 year-old human would have much more trouble with a cold than a 30 year-old.

I tried to call my dad, but no answer. So I called Robert, a friend of mine who loves animals even more than I do. I described Kito’s condition, and he asked, “Is he going cold?” When I said yes, Robert told me I had a difficult decision to make, but that I had to think of whether I was willing to watch Kito suffer. No, I said. Let him go, he said. You can’t let him suffer. This isn’t an easy decision, I said. I know, he replied.

When it was time to euthanize him, the vet asked if I wanted to leave. Polar Bearball and Mila, our housekeeper, had accompanied me to the clinic. Mila had to leave because she was upset. Polar Bearball asked me if I wanted to push the plunger on the syringe which would euthanize Kito. I couldn’t. But I refused to leave; I wasn’t going to let Kito die alone with strangers around him. I held him as they injected the solution; he was so weak, he couldn’t even protest, let alone jerk away when the needle went in.

I stroked his forehead as he died. I saw the life go out of the eyes which he couldn’t blink anymore. I realized I was crying when I could no longer draw breath. Screw what the vets thought. I only wish he could have told me whether he I had done the right thing or not.

When Kito voided his bladder and shuddered, the vet put a stethoscope to his heart, and confirmed that it stopped at 8:05 p.m. When he expelled his breath and began jerking, I thought I had made a horrible mistake, killing a cat who was still worth saving. The vet told me it was natural; the muscles were simply spasming.

Polar Bearball took care of paying the vet, and quietly stood by me as it all happened.

We’ll bury Kito in the garden tomorrow morning, when it’s light enough to see.

It was only when we got home Polar Bearball told me that he would miss the cat on the window sill that I really, really cried.

This is our Kito, keeping cool in the bathroom. He seems better, and suddenly hates being alone; he cries when left alone for too long.

If you pray, please remember our cat Kito. He’s 14 years old, and is getting weaker and weaker. I think he’s dying, but it isn’t easy for me to say that.

Just a while ago, when I checked on him, he was so quiet and stiff that I thought he had died. When I called his name, he blinked, then meowed softly.

I don’t know what to do. We’ve brought him to the vet twice already. In all these years, he’s only needed to go to the vet about four times. He’s the healthiest of our cats, and he’s always been sweet and friendly.

But now he refuses to eat, and lies around the bathroom, meowing weakly. We don’t know what’s wrong with poor Kito; he just fought off a viral infection that also downed Siopao last week. Siopao’s up and eating anything that doesn’t attack him first, but the virus seems to have taken a lot out of Kito.

I think that the reason why I can’t accept what seems inevitable, given his long life, is because Kito is part of my childhood. He was there when I entered college, and he was the first cat to be allowed in the house, the first to be neutered, the first to be loved as a household pet. Though he preferred to live outside for most of his life, he would always be there when we came home. When I learned how to drive, and began coming home late, Kito waited in the garage and “guided” me in, tail waving proudly in the air. He was the first cat who learned how to jump up to the second floor windowsill, and though he was often taken for granted, he was never unloved.

Please let him get well. I’m not ready to let this part of my life go yet. And if I’m forced to make the decision to let him go and ease his passing with the help of the vet, I hope I am strong enough to make the right choice if he is suffering.

Anyone interested in trading items and/or favors? Just post a reply if you have any of the following items and are willing to accept cash/trades for them:

1. Vampire: The Eternal Struggle cards (preferably the latest expansion, Kindred Most Wanted)
2. Copies of Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 2, pref. DVD
3. The Princess Bride, book and DVD
4. Robin Hood: Men In Tights (Cary Elwes), DVD
5. Monty Python and the Holy Grail, DVD
6. P. G. Wodehouse's "Jeeves" books (except "Carry On, Jeeves")
7. Copies of old Nancy Drew mysteries

I have items to get rid of:

1. Pocket PC accessories for Toshiba Pocket PCs (charger, USB charger)
2. Two-way vanity mirror (never ever used), wall-mountable
3. 110 v lightbulbs, all power-saving (Don't ask why I have them)
4. Gmail invitations
5. Kitten/puppy powdered milk substitute, 1 whole can (about 2 pounds)

I'll update this list once I remember things. ^_^

After writing about the snotty faculty member a few entries ago, I remembered an episode from my first few years of teaching. My best friend, Goldie Golds, was a former student, and a brilliant one. We became friends after she candidly admitted that she wanted to re-enroll in my class the next semester because I served good brownies. Who could resist such wit?

I do remember, though, that some people in my Department frowned on me hanging around campus with a girl who took my classes thrice.

Though I make fun of stupid students regularly, I also adore many of my students, and I am proud of many of them. Besides, the cruelest people when it comes to making fun of bad/stupid students are their own classmates. Who else could have come up with “na-overdose sa Promil” (hey there, Pasigraver!) or “she makes rocks look smart”?

Of course the sipsip is a major benefit too. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that!

I don’t mind when some of my students approach me and tell me about their lives, so long as it doesn’t become a reason to try and borrow money off me (!) or to make me their emotional punching bag.

(Digression: It would be nice if some cute male student made a pass at me but alas, there is a dearth of handsome young men in UP. Usually, the beautiful young men are gay. My last very handsome student, Mario, receives passes from women often, but is happily in a relationship with—no surprise here—an equally handsome young man. Oddly enough, he writes the some of the most beautiful heterosexual erotica I've ever read!)

But I do remain wary if this happens during the semester; I never know whether it’s sincere or for the grade. If someone comes back, though, and befriends me outside class, and takes a genuine interest in who I am, that makes me happy.

So when I was advised not to make students my friends over a decade ago, when I started teaching, I ignored the advice, not knowing any better. I’ve since learned that you apply the rule selectively, and learn to trust your instincts as to who is really interested in you as a person, and who’s just interested in the elusive uno from you.

Yet when students turn out to be wonderful people who are genuinely interested in sharing their lives with me, I can’t help but feel flattered and happy…especially when their lives turn out to be more fascinating than a soap opera! (Hello Tata!) And perhaps this is, as what my former teacher Heidi Abad once told me, what keeps us young (well, mentally?) and in the University.

Check this comment out, which got sent to my email before Haloscan removed all the other comments:

From:
anonymous-comment@blogger.com Add to Address Book
Subject:
[Kitty Litter] 5/16/2005 12:47:23 AM
Date:
Sun, 15 May 2005 09:47:28 -0700 (PDT)

wouldn't it be so nice if everyone looked at themselves first before they bitched about anyone else?i think, that just as the angry words most of you write here aren't representative of who you are as a person, you cannot call a person a brat, an idiot, or anything else -- without really getting to know the person.it is possible to judge you all based on what you say on this page -- but i won't -- because i have better things to do. --Posted by to Kitty Litter at 5/16/2005 12:47:23 AM

I was upset at first, but when I calmed down, I took out my original response as I realized this person may be baiting a reply from me. I have nothing to prove to someone whom I don't even know, after all, and I suspect the persistent, deliberate perversions of what I say (for example, the comment above was posted to "Zip Me Up,") and the snide comments based on misinsterpretations of this blog are deliberate.

One version/personality of Anonymous tries to say something nice at times (such as "i think, that just as the angry words most of you write here aren't representative of who you are as a person"), which leads me to think that I must know the person on a casual basis. Of course it's followed by a snide comment, "I have better things to do," which is ironic, really...so why keep coming back to the blog that is beneath you? Obviously, this blog means a lot to Anonymous for him/her to take the time out to constantly post here.

I think that what Anonymous does is a form of censorship. I choose to assume a certain persona on this blog, and that is my prerogative. I know there are worse bloggers out there, and I am not ashamed of what I write. That's why I stand behind them, and don't post anonymously.

Whatever the reasons of the various Anonymous-es are (assuming there's more than one, which is unlikely), it won't stop me from writing what I feel like writing. Giving in to the bullying comments by stopping or moving the blog elsewhere, or responding angrily is exactly what this person wants. Too bad I've given up on trying to please people.

Now I only hope Anonymous will respond again and let me know who s/he really is. I'm willing to meet this person, face-to-face, but I doubt s/he wants that. That wouldn't be playing on his or her turf anymore, and the loss of control is the last thing s/he wants.

Some time ago, I was at the department office joking around with the staff. We were discussing the antics of a crazy person who walked in and started threatening the staff, the faculty, and the students present. Ate Sanie, our computer person, began telling a hilarious story about how, several years ago, one of the toughest members of our faculty asked Sanie to accompany her for days after facing down the psycho. Seems the said psycho had plagiarized several papers in the tough faculty member’s class, and in several other classes, for that matter, in different colleges. When confronted with evidence of the misdeed, the psycho threatened to, shall we say, rearrange Tough Faculty’s face with a noxious liquid, in the spirit of the popular films of the time.

I was laughing my head off as Ate Sanie is quite a raconteur, and was embellishing the story with imitations of the faces the psycho and Tough Faculty made during the fight.

That’s when an older faculty member (not necessarily from our department) came in and glared balefully at us. We shut up promptly, and went on with our business. But on my way out, the older faculty member turned to me and said, “You should stop associating with the staff. It is beneath you. Desist.” Then the older faculty member floated imperiously away.

I know the older faculty member has reason to be ticked off at the staff. I know that person is of the “old school” and has a more rigid system of values than I do. But I felt that was out of line.

Our staff can be bribed to help us out of sticky situations which would otherwise require miles of bureaucratic tape to untangle. They field calls for us, and fend off wandering salespeople, pesky “Please pass me even if I never went to class” students, and the occasional weirdo. We do our jobs, and they do theirs. I like them because of and in spite of their quirks (one, Ate Jules, is feared by students because she is of the belief that all students are stupid and treats them accordingly).

Our staff can screw up royally, and occasionally, the screwups have harmed me. But don’t we all screw up? They are people too, and just because they’re ranked lower than me doesn’t mean anything when it comes to relating to them as people. I like a good laugh, and I don’t really care who makes me laugh. Even if that person is, in the eyes of some other people, beneath me.

They say the Nazis are hiding in the forests of South America. They’re wrong; the Nazi spirit of bigotry has traveled around the world and is alive and well in varying degrees in all of us.

I find it hilarious that, in the newspapers I opened today, the columnists who had their panties in a bunch over the whole business of the spate of journalist killings were almost all in the lifestyle section. Nearly all of them were crying foul, and wondering whether they were next. Interestingly, none of them were demanding justice for their “colleagues.” Those opinion writers who did write about the killings chose to examine the reasons for the killings, or to analyze the refusal of the government to acknowledge it as a problem.

Every semester, my Journ students—the ones who are serious about their profession, that is—display a single pet peeve: they hate the propensity of people to call anyone remotely related to a newspaper a “journalist.” I agree with them, as creative writing faces the same problem: any moron who can string things together in a semblance of grammatical sense is a “writer.”

Warning: long digression ahead. Here’s something hilarious: I saw a calling card dropped into a bowl at the counter of Starbucks, where the person’s name was printed thus: “Journalist Juan dela Cruz,” “Juan dela Cruz” being my substitute for the actual name. This country is obsessed with unwarranted, unnecessary, and undeserved titles: Architect dela Cruz, Engineer dela Cruz, Attorney dela Cruz, Professor dela Cruz. I can just imagine what comes next: calling cards that read, “Singer Juana dela Cruz” or perhaps “Senior Telemarketer Jun dela Cruz.” I’ve even seen calling cards handed to my Polar Bearball, and one of them went something like this:

“Dr. Engr. Arch. Juana dela Cruz, A.B., M.A., Ph.D., Psychic and Doctor-in-Fact, Attorney by Brain, and Self- Educated Person.”

She’d never finished high school, see, but since she read a lot, she felt she was superior to all those poor doctors, lawyers, and other people who had to take board exams to earn their titles.

In the rest of the world, this is considered unprofessional. But it’s only in the Philippines that I can print up a calling card and have people who receive it ask me why I don’t put “Professor” before my name. Whatever for? I am an assistant professor, not a full professor, so I am only referred to as “Professor” in UP.

Thus the title really means nothing, and should not be used as a weapon for intimidation. A journalist has a heavy responsibility for people and the truth; sadly, this is often forgotten and/or ignored by too many of today’s “journalists.” Too many of them think that going to a cocktail party and writing about it qualifies them to be journalists. Am I a journalist because I’ve worked for newspapers and write articles and columns? Hell no, and anyone who thinks I’m a journalist is stupid.

I’ve always believed in the old-school journalist, the one who covered stories from the trenches (not the Internet) and whose overriding passion was for the truth. Not Truth (as in embellished, artful, hysterical), but plain and simple truth. Real journalists can tell a story engagingly yet they do the research, analyze their facts intelligently, and attempt to write objectively. (Note the word “attempt,” as I believe there is no such thing as true objectivity—our experiences color all our perceptions.)

Nowadays anyone who’s been published in a newspaper is a journalist. Funny part is, it’s the lifestyle people who are most conscious of the title “journalist” and who insist on being addressed as such.

What of the “real” journalists, then? They’re usually too busy…or too dead…to care about something as superficial as the title they’re addressed by.

I think I like teaching in UP because I see the celebrities whom I look up to. Just this morning, I got to whine about the high tax bites out of our overload pay with Monico Atienza, activist, writer, and perennial “takbuhan ng inaping estudyante.” My former boss, national artist Rio Almario, walks across the hall to say hello to me. Jing Hidalgo, pioneer of creative nonfiction in the Philippines, is adviser, friend, and occasional critic. You can leave a note for Butch Dalisay in his pigeonhole and, his schedule permitting, have coffee with him in the afternoon. Activist and writer Mila Aguilar is my officemate, and we enjoy comparing notes on students, computers, and the government. I have conversations with leading gay poet Neil Garcia through the thin wall that divides our offices. I got to room with Amelia Lapena Bonifacio several years ago, and I can eat cake and read tarot cards with several rising stars on the so-called literary scene. I know I’m very lucky, and one of the things that makes me happy is when these people treat me as a friend and an equal.

I know what society types will think: good God, they’re just writers. But these are the people I admire, and getting to know them as real people is always a thrill.

I think historian Ambeth Ocampo was highly amused by my reaction about a year or so ago, when I ran into him in Malate. He hailed me, having recognized me as the super-kulit interviewer from a class with Marra Lanot, and I was surprised that he’d recognized me. I rushed over, grabbed his hand, shook it, and repeated, “Kamusta ka?” about two or three times like a bibbling idiot. My mom was curious: “Nasa TV ba siya?” I told her that Ambeth was THE history writer for me, and that I had almost all his books. My sister, who has swiped the books from me, suddenly started giggling, and said, “Cute pala siya!”

Being in contact with those you admire is a giddy experience. They are real people, and they are talking to me! is what often runs through my mind. In a pond as small as the Philippine scene, these celebrity encounters leave me just as excited as, say, sharing breathing space with Piolo Pascual or Claudine Barretto in a restaurant. The difference is that I prefer to play it cool when it’s a showbiz personality; those people are tired of being molested and recognized, and probably need a break from all the pa-kodak, pa-kiss, and pa-autograph they deal with on a daily basis. Vim Nadera is flattered when people need smelling salts in his presence, and I bet many other writers, actors, and artists in the University could use the same validation from fans like me.

Check out this post by Bianca, "Smells Like Free Spirit." My favorite part goes:

"The last leg of the journey was marked by a picturesque cave surrounded by shallow but strong rapids. Apparently, it was a nice place for photo shoots—several publications had braved the rapids just to shoot in that particular spot. Awed by the raw beauty around us, several of us proceeded to strip down to our swimsuits and defiled the place by having our own FHM-inspired shoot, the photos of which will never see the light of day."

Now Bianca, I will have to bribe someone for those photos. Mmm. The Banzai Cat works for the rival paper, and if I offer enough kibble, maybe he can dig up some of the dirt? ^_^

Kidding aside, the Polar Bearball loved Cagayan when he was sent there for legal work a year or so ago. Perhaps I'll accompany him next time. >^..^<

Remember Dexter? (click for link and back story) He's back in business, though as you can see, his burn hasn't completely healed.

His owner is going crazy trying to get him to stay home and stop marauding, but the guy is incorrigible. Despite what happened, he can still purr, and is still friendly. Amazing thing, the resilience of cats!

But that still doesn't excuse the bastard who did all those terrible things to him.

Every morning I used to have breakfast at the Shopping Center in UP. Rodic’s was the place to go for tapsilog, baconsilog, pork steak, and other passable, cheap fare for days when you couldn’t afford to go to Chocolate Kiss or to Mang Jimmy’s. Though occasionally I would see a waiter’s thumb in the rice, or a suspiciously curly hair in the bistek sauce (thus the nickname pertaining to a sensitive part of the anatomy which rhymes with Rodic’s), it was part of the dingy charm of the place. I used to bring snooty people there just to test their commitment to their snotty ideals.

I don’t eat there anymore, though. Believe it or not, it’s too expensive.

The hotdog breakfast meal at Jollibee is P 50 for a generous serving of fried rice, a 6’ hotdog, a fried egg, and your choice of hot chocolate, coffee, or an 8 oz. juice or soft drink. Though you have to wait, as the Jollibee drive-thru at Philcoa is famous for getting orders mixed up, the meal is OK. You don’t expect a gourmet meal for P 50 anyway.

At Rodic’s, you pay P 55 for a 6’ hotdog, half the rice you get at Jollibee, and a haphazardly fried egg. Gone are the days when they could fry perfect sunny side-up eggs; you get a congealed mass of egg white and cooking oil. If you want a drink, the cheapest is a 12 oz bottle of soft drinks for P 15.

Occasionally, hair still turns up in the food, and it isn’t funny anymore because you know you’re paying the equivalent of nearly half a day’s pay (on minimum wage) for crap.

Even with the adjusted fares of P 7.50 going to Philcoa from UP, you’re still ahead if you get a Jolly Breakfast. Ugh.

Something is very wrong when a breakfast at Jollibee, a big fast food chain, is cheaper than one at Rodic’s. I guess the new management has gotten greedy, or overconfident, or both. For me, it’s the passing of an era; it saddens me because there’s a movement to “save” the Shopping Center from “capitalism”…and its advocates simply cannot see that capitalism has already taken it over.

Marina and Soxie being cute. Soxie is rather huge, though Gypsy is MUCH larger, and Siopao outweighs 'em all. Though I know you can't save all cats on the street, our 14 cats (Kito, Annabelle Rama, Siopao, Doc Ling, Gypsy, Nina, Soxie Roxie--shown above, big gray cat with socks, Chinky, Longtail, Meow, Ewood, Casey, Marina, and Kikay, in order of age) are all beautiful gifts we rescued from the street. You can't buy love, but you sure can pick it up. Pets make homes more homey ^_^

Marina being "literary." I swear there is a manual somewhere for all cats, entitled "How To Make Your Owner Go 'Awwww...'"