Kitty Litter

Part of my job is to rewrite some of the world's worst PR, and when "Cat" at the office sent me this one without comment, I knew I was in trouble.

Also, is it a rule that the worse the PR, the more pesky and aggressive the person pushing it? "Cat" told me that not only did the perpetrator of this article text and call her repeatedly, s/he also faxed it to the office at least twice and said something along the lines of "Dapat nakuha mo na yan ha. (You better have gotten it already)"

If you work in PR, here are two free lessons: One, it doesn't do to throw your weight around. Public relations includes being nice to the whole staff, not just the editor. Pestering the staff is the best way to NOT get your piece of crap published...and I know that most PR is badly written because I'm the one who has to edit and, all too often, REWRITE it...and for no extra charge, damn it.

Two, the point of PR is to get a message across to the public. If the message of the article below is that the hotel/resort/whatever can't afford to hire someone who can write well, then I probably don't want to stay there since if they can't attend to that detail, then what more the other details like clean sheets and so on? Flowery, silly language does not attract readers. We want info, not bullshit.

That being said, I present the text here for you to, er, enjoy. I've edited out identifying details; if you figure out what the hell the "intro poem" is supposed to mean, feel free to tell me.

(PR begins below this line. I did not write this, and I am not making this up. Everything is original, although I've deleted the identifying details. I have, however, highlighted the "best" parts, which I am thinking of incorporating into my vocabulary. Side comments in green itals.)

"On white satin makeup
vibrance sets in (Uy, kabuki makeup?),
Pure and simple
caressing the high wind,
Walk in elegance of a would-be queen
March on...dream
is truth to be foreseen."

Wedding is an event that all of us aspire of having. Whether it is held with simplicity or elegance, the ritual is a once in a lifetime experience that one couple, bounded by the sacramental vows and the words "I do," treasure.

Most of us dream of a grand wedding to typify the importance of the event. Whether it is on the halls of the cathedral (Wouldn't it be hard to wed ON a hall?) or at the pure sands of the coast, the splendor of a wedding speaks out several decibels off the scene (Weddings yell? Didn't know that. Must be attending the wrong weddings). It pushes each and every one of us to dream of having or upstage the event that we saw in our very eyes.

However, reality speaks in a paper bill form (Now why didn't I think of that?). The grander the wedding is; the more fortune we exhaust. We now ponder to the truth that only the rich and famous can execute the dream wedding that most of us cannot have (Oo nga naman).

But what if I say, there is still a chance to have your dream come true? Yes, you and your couple (Wedding threesomes! Now THIS I have to see) still have that majestic march complete with accommodations and a scenic location overlooking the city. The dream can be a reality via scaling up the (name of province) knolls (A wedding march has accommodations?). To be exact, the dream is found in (name of place).

(Two paragraphs about wedding package and description of place deleted)

Labels: bad writing, rants

Stop the presses! Just when I was pulling through two difficult weeks, I heard the kind of story that helped bring my perspective back.

Or so I think.

All I know is that I think I want hardship...the kind in the story below.

A very wealthy friend of my mom's gleefully told her the story of one of her nieces. The family lives in Ayala Alabang, so when the niece applied for a job at a call center, well, let's just say the interviewer was taken aback. Seems she wanted the job to be with her friends.

He told the girl, "I'm not sure this is a good idea for you. You live in Ayala Alabang and you must enjoy a certain standard of living, so there might be problems with your commitment to work. I must point out that a lot of our employees aren't very well off, and I don't know if you can relate to them as I doubt you've known, er, hardship."

The girl brightly responded, "Oh, I know hardship! And I can deal with it. I drive a 7 year old Toyota Corona, you know, and that's really hard."

You know I'm not making this up because I bet you have an even funnier story about this kind of perspective.

Labels: funny stories

This is one of the reasons why I've been so busy lately: the kitten Tiny, whom we picked up outside my mom's house. Her mother had rejected her, and she was screaming her head off in the street. Naturally we couldn't resist. She has a curly tail, a goofy expression on her face, and, according to Wynn, a 186 processor. She's at the stage where she's playful and affectionate, and one thing that makes me happy is how Wynn has responded to her: from a guy who locked doors and yelled whenever a cat was around, he now feeds and plays with the little kitty. By the way those are his legs, not mine :D















The big cat is my Longtail, and she looks disgruntled because Tiny is on her huge belly. She hates the kitten, but is forced to live with her as they're both in my room. Note the contrast in size. No that's not a sofa behind them; it's me.















Blurry photo of Tiny in a coffee can, which shows you how she got the name "Tiny". I have a better photo which I'll upload once I figure out how to attach my camera to my computer: it's Tiny next to a bottle of lotion, looking very tiny.

And below is what I wish I could be doing right now. Have a great summer!

Labels: cats

I love the part of my job where I proofread the New York Times, because I am a double whammy: a geek and a nerd at heart, and nothing makes me happier than reading. Unless it’s reading for a living…which I do, and so I’d like to think that I am a happy nerd because I’m paid to learn.

No, I haven’t been offline because I’ve gone back into depression or anything drastic, but I’ve been desperately busy. But seeing a story in the Times this week, called “A Therapy With History and Tears, Alters A Man” almost brought me to tears myself, and prodded me to write again, because it helped me understand the ordeal I went through some time ago, and am still feeling the aftereffects of.

Dr Richard Wassersug, a professor of anatomy and neurobiology at Dalhousie University in Nova Scotia wrote about dealing with the chemical castration necessary to treat prostate cancer. Like me, he was terrified of how he became slave to his moods, and ashamed because he suffered. He went into a depression because of the negative stereotypes associated with castration.

How did he fight back? He learned about his condition, and discovered that eunuchs have special places in history…and that the eunuchs of antiquity were, according to classicists, the models for the Judeo-Christian angels.

And he lived: he sings in a choir (bass; chemical castration when fully grown only affects hair on arms and legs), goes out, enjoys his family’s company. He learned that the ability to understand others was not to be feared: “…testosterone fuels aggression but suppresses empathy and the ability to cry.”

And he cried. He writes, “I don’t recall crying much as an adult…I feared my tears would be perceived as maudlin self-pity. But the truth is that I’ve become more sensitive to the trials and tribulations of others. I am thus no longer embarrassed by my tears. I consider them humanizing.”

Perhaps it is those who cannot cry who need it most. Several things kept me alive during that period (including a large bear-sized shoulder-to-cry-on named Wynn), and I think the ability to cry (and willingness to deal with the snot-filled, burning-eye tender-nose aftermath) helped me pull through. The other was my love for reading.

I think that reading is one thing that no one can take away from me. If I were to go blind, I would seriously consider self-termination, except I’m a frigging coward about the whole business (I take to heart Dorothy Parker’s “You might as well live”). I read everywhere; ask poor Wynn, who has to put up with me reading even food labels at the dinner table. I feel naked without something to read, and I would never consider taking a job that doesn’t involve reading.

That one man has used reading and learning to deal with a pedestrian tragedy which is none less tragic for him, the sufferer, makes me feel validated. Reading is therapy; ask anyone who perpetually has a pile of books waiting to be read, or who haunts bookstores. And there can be no true reading without learning more about the world at large and yourself.

There has never been any shame in being depressed, and in falling prey to hormones running amok. Reading Dr Wassersug’s essay let me know that I wasn’t alone…and that helped so much more than any self-help book anyone could have given me.

Wanna feel better about yourself? Try this; they match your face up with celebrities who look better! hehe. Seems in one 'incarnation'--Katie Leung--I get to kiss Daniel Radcliffe kaya happy na ako ;p Swiped from Allen, thanks!

My cool celebrity look-alike collage from MyHeritage.com. Get one for yourself.

“Sandy” (not her real name but close enough), one of the new girls at the office, was shellshocked as she spoke on the phone earlier today. She later approached me to tell me a strange and infuriating story, part of which I’d overheard but decided not to ask about.

A bit of background is necessary to understand the situation. Names have been removed to prevent identification. (A section I edit for) joined (a big Valentine shindig) last February and gave away prizes in cooperation with (a popular toothpaste brand). “Sandy” was assigned to inform the winners of…well, their wins…and to take care of distributing the prizes.

Thing is, “Sandy” had to go off on several marathon shoots with the rest of the staff. Given the grueling schedule, I am grateful I got to vegetate in the office. I don’t recall ever answering a call from a bitch named (okay not her name but close) Vivah Vovah, but when she called this morning, she haughtily informed “Sandy”, “Ako yung nanalo ng prize.” (I’m the one who won a prize.)

(Duh, as if there weren’t any other winners?) “Sandy” is mild-mannered, and didn’t rise to the bait; instead, she asked who the person was.

Vivah Bobah arrogantly replied with her name, and then told “Sandy” her secretary had been going to the office and calling to claim her prize. But no one ever tried to claim a prize for Vivah Bobah. Unless Bobah’s secretary happens to be the Invisible Woman.

I know there were some idiots who came to the office without calling first, and who tried to blame me for “not letting them know” the prizes weren’t available. Like that’s my problem? I always told them, “I was not involved in this; I handle a different section. If you have a complaint, wait for the section people to come back and take it up with them.”

For persistent pests, my response was, “I’m not in charge here. I edit another section, and I can’t help you. Sorry.” Though I was irritated at the pushy, know-it-all ones, I tried my best to be polite, even taking their numbers down and leaving notes for “Sandy”.

One woman even went as far as to suggest that she open the (toothpaste brand) boxes herself so that she could “save a trip”. Our office messenger Mang Mario prevented the boorish bitch from doing so, telling me later he was afraid he’d be blamed if something disappeared.

Now, not all winners were like this. Some were decent people who came to the office and who, upon being informed that the prizes could not be released since the person in charge was out, actually apologized for the inconvenience! Others called and, upon being told the same, cheerfully said they would just call back. None of these people, though, was Vivah Bobah or her alleged secretary.

Anyway, Vivah Bobah called this morning already in a fighting mood, and she found poor, patient “Sandy” on the other end of the line. “Sandy” explained the reason for the delay in giving out the prizes, and apologized sweetly.

Not good enough for Vivah Bobah. She proceeded to berate “Sandy”, claiming her secretary had made many trips to the office and had wasted lots of time calling the office to find out when she could claim her prize. When “Sandy” apologized and told her she could claim her prize anytime. Vivah Bobah then sarcastically asked “Sandy” if she was going to be in the office all afternoon, then said, “Siguruhin mong hindi ka out to lunch pagdating ng secretary ko.” (Make sure you’re not out to lunch when my secretary arrives.)

Bobah then inquired about her prize. “Baka naman iisang toothpaste lang yan,” she snarled. (Is it just a single tube of toothpaste?) Undaunted, “Sandy” fired back, “No ma’am, it’s five.” Whereupon Vivah Bobah sarcastically told “Sandy” to keep it for herself because she might need it more. I was astounded to hear “Sandy” apologize then thank the lout for calling.

There is no excuse for Bobah’s behavior. “Sandy” owed her nothing. To call the office already in a towering snit over something else and then to take it out on whoever answers the phone is just plain stupid. Vivah Bobah was lucky I didn’t answer the phone as I’d’ve told her to fuck off. Sure, if her story was true—which I highly doubt, since I was answering the phones in the weeks the staff was out—then she’d have a right to be pissed. But since she was probably lying about her secretary and the calls, what right did she have to be angry?

Was there a point to all the unpleasantness? Had Bobah been pleasant, she could have filed her alleged complaint and probably gotten free delivery of the prize as consolation for her suffering. But then I doubt she understands that approach. Too many Pinoys don't, and prefer to throw their weight around (see Ian Casocot's true story about "momsters" for more horror). (The comments from witnesses in the comments page of that entry deserve to be read as well.)

For that matter, correct me if I’m wrong but if you win a prize from a random drawing, well, it’s a gift, not a right.

Why do people have to be this rude? “Sandy” was completely blameless in the episode. I suspect Bobah was inflamed further by “Sandy”’s refusal to fight her. But that’s even more stupid. How pathetic does your life have to be for you to have to pick fights with people who haven’t done anything to you?

I did realize one thing: no matter how nice you are to some people, some people really are out to just take things out on someone else. And there’s nothing you can do about it. It isn’t fair? Here’s a cliché to answer that: Life isn’t fair.

It just sucks when life is unfair in your direction. A lot.

Labels: small annoyances

This morning, on the way to work, Wynn and I saw a rather sad-looking beggar--a cripple--going from car to car on Dapitan. Wynn normally gets hard-nosed when it comes to beggars, especially when they're young and full-bodied, but this man clearly had few other options in a society which cares very little for those who are disadvantaged.

The beggar came over to my side, and I was startled to see that he was my age, if not younger. Since I was out of change, I grabbed a bunch of candies I'd received from a drive-through and handed them all to the man, who promptly responded with, "Salamat po, sana mahaba po ang buhay mo." (Thank you, may you live long.) And I said, without thinking, "Yes, thank you, I'd like that too."

I'm tired of beggars who threaten, or who chant the familiar I-need-something-to-eat, I-need-some-change, or who bang on your car window angrily because they firmly believe that they deserve something from you, and those who glare at you in hopes of 'shaming' you into giving them what they 'deserve'.

Hearing this blessing from a man who needed it more than I did makes up for the daily horror of driving into Manila traffic.

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I know Wynn doesn't approve of the cat hair that festoons my bedroom, but my cat helps me sleep well. There's nothing like a warm, furry, loving body (feline, canine, rodent...and the occasional non-furry snake for some brave souls I know) curled up to you in the night to chase away fears of the dark and the unknown.

My cat (called anything from Princess, Flabby Tabby, Longtail, Basilia, and Kitty Ditty) sleeps wherever she feels like it on my bed, and though this sometimes results in cramped sleeping positions and stiff necks, I think it's the kind of small joy everyone should be able to savor. Barring allergies, fears, dislikes, and so on, of course.

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In the spirit of blessings, here's mine for you today (Adapted from a song I heard once and which I never found out the title or lyrics to): May your troubles be small ones that can be swept off your shoes at the end of the day.

Labels: cats, small happy things

You know how people make lists of things to do before they die? I have a list of things to live for instead, and one of my fondest dreams is to start a real advocacy for cats.

Cats are often abused and maltreated in the Philippines; just a month ago, I faced down a group of ugly, rude schoolboys who, for no apparent reason, suddenly stoned and kicked a cat foraging on the street outside our house. I screamed and yelled at them, and they left quickly; in hindsight I should've been carrying one of the blades or knives Wynn has gifted me with, as violence is the only language these lower life forms understand. I'd report them to their school authorities, but what for? You know how parents are these days (and sadly many are my age): they will blame everyone but their children (and themselves) for any misbehavior on the part of their unruly, undisciplined, and stupid offspring. (More on that in a later entry.)

But why should I quit just because I'm alone? So my family and I have taken in cats and kittens in the hopes of saving even just a few, of giving them a better life than most. It's heart-wrenching though when you know you can't save them all, and you see a cat that deserves to be saved but whom you can't.

This morning while at the drive-through fastfood near our house, I noticed a small kitten perched on top of a trash can by the entrance of the fastfood, meowing expectantly and hopefully every time someone came through the door.

She (a tricolor kitty, hence the chances of her being female were high) was at that pint-sized stage where she rightfully should still have been with her mother, but there she was, out foraging for food. I am amazed that she found it in herself to trust humans, and it was a good thing they were ignoring her because if someone was abusive I would've stopped traffic to pick a fight. (Sure, mababaw, but I'd rather fight for a real cause than be 'in' with the trendy 'causes' today.)

Such a pretty, trusting kitten deserves a home, and if anyone can find it in themselves to give her one, I will gladly pick her up for you, clean her up, have her spayed, and supply you with food.

I want to have the money to actually do something: adopt more, hire people to help with cleaning up, feeding, and socializing, and prosecute cat abusers. But as I haven't won the lottery yet, I prefer to give love to our cats. If you want a pet who won't need too much maintenance, is quiet and clean, why not a cat? I'll help you.

And to convince you of that, have a look at our cats. Nearly every cat below has been adopted off the street, and is a wonderful bundle of love. (No you can't have THESE! ^_^)

Casey came home as a frightened cat; my mom found him at the height of a storm and managed to coax him into the car. He's a bit shy as some of the older cats bullied him, but he's sweet and friendly nonetheless.










Chinky (the mostly white tricolor) adopted Pacquiao (the orange) when he arrived as a two-day-old foundling. Kyaw, as we call him, is such a good-natured creature, he even gets along with the dog!










Here's Marietta (grayish-orange) and Kyaw as freshly adopted kittens. Marietta would later lose her eye to an infection aggravated by rough play, but you can't even tell she's one-eyed because she's active, playful, and eager for hugs. Aww, see how tiny they are? Marietta is about two weeks old here, and Kyaw is a week old. (Yes, he grew into the behemoth of a cat you see above. Score one for my mom's cat raising abilities!)





Here they are today! Can you believe how big they are? One of the best rewards of adopting animals is seeing them grow. None of my mom's cats have died on her (save for one kitten who had a violent allergic reaction to her first series of shots) and they make the house home. If you've never been greeted by a furry face when you come home (feline, canine, unshaved husband, whatever), then you're missing out on one of the nicest little pleasures in life.

Labels: cat photos, cats

(On the left: wish this would work in Manila!)


If you’ve ever driven, walked, or been ferried through the streets of Metro Manila, you aren’t a true Manilenyo if you haven’t seen:

1. Street vendors hawking everything imaginable and a few things out of the realms of logic; I have yet to see someone actually buy a cowboy hat or a fishing rod or “nipple pinker” cream (I leave that to your imagination, dirty or otherwise).
2. Beggars of all sorts, from the apathetic and truly pitiful to those with admirable chutzpah (“I’ll dance or sing if you give me five pesos!” My fantasy response? “Here’s the five bucks but only if you don’t do it!”) and outright gall (raise your hand if a beggar somewhere has thrown a peso back into your face and called you a cheapskate or worse).
3. Suicidal jumpers with weird priorities; the GMA 7 billboard on East Avenue corner EDSA attracts a LOT of them, including, allegedly, the man who threatened to jump because it was "too hot to live". (Please tell me I am making this up!) You either a) gawked or b) yelled invectives at the poor S or D of a B.
4. Strange, uh, characters, ranging from the ubiquitous flashers, men “choking the chicken” in public, and those who make you stop and ask yourself, “what the fuck?” (Take the woman I once saw arguing vigorously with a street lamp. From the looks of it, she was winning.)
5. A true blue honest-to-goodness road rage-inspired fight. And you cheered the participants on or gawked or even joined in!
   

I’ve seen and done all of the above, and I am dying to see another street fight (aside from the ones Wynn and I have been in) so that I can unleash the phrases I’ve saved up for the occasion. One is “Talon! Talon! Ay, hinde, patayan na lang kayo.” (Hard to translate but “Talon, talon!” is “encouragement” hurled at suicide jumpers by bystanders seeking a cheap thrill. Since it’s inappropriate for a street fight, the last clause invites the combatants to remove each other permanently from the gene pool. Amen.) Another is the delightful schoolyard challenge, “Hawakan mo sa tenga!” Apparently, tweaking a man’s ear is an affront to his manhood. Damned if I know why.

Last week, during my dad’s birthday party, my uncle Ed, my dad, my sister, and I got to talking about the road rage incidents we’ve witnessed (and participated in). Quite a few stories were trotted out, and I share one with you now. Don’t worry, more will follow soon.

Road Rage Episode 4 (the others are in my archives, and I’ll link to them once I find them)

My Uncle Ed was in Divisoria, along that tiny road off Recto which leads into a packed alley that gives on to the Tutuban parking area. He was crawling north in what was supposed to be a two-lane road, but the circus of street vendors reduced it to one and half a road. Traffic was, as is to be expected, lousy, and one impatient truck driving lout decided that going into the oncoming lane (despite the presence of oncoming traffic!) was the best solution. As most lower life forms do when given control of a machine smarter than him, this one blocked the passage of vehicles in the oncoming lane, where my Uncle Ed’s car was the lead vehicle.

My even-tempered uncle came out and tried to reason with the meat-brained driver, who spat a huge gob of phlegm out his window and said, “Nauna na ako e, di kayo lahat ang umatras!” (I got here first; you all back up now!) He then rolled up his window and proceeded to ignore my uncle's entreaties and the deafening barrage of honking from the aggrieved drivers; his equally shit-for-brains helpers waved at everyone in the oncoming lane to back up.

Uncle Ed shrugged and walked back to his car, figuring there was no reasoning with the dungbrained truck driver. He was mentally preparing to settle in and wait it out when a portly man quietlywent past him . Portly guy drew a .45 from behind his pants (will someone explain this location for firearms, please?) and without a word, flung open the dungbrained truck driver’s door and pistol-whipped him so hard, blood flew out the door and spattered a vendor along the side of the road.

Dungbrain Driver and his helpers immediately sprang into action as the man with the gun calmly folded his arms and watched them move. Dungbrain Driver threw the truck into reverse, and with his suddenly efficient team clearing the path behind him of other louts who had followed his example, he broke a speed record backing out of the oncoming lane.

Once Dungbrain was far enough, the man with the gun turned to my Uncle Ed, gave him a cheerless and silent thumbs-up sign, and walked back to his car.

Labels: funny fights, humor, road rage

This is Doc Ling, aka Annabelle (behind the name is a long story involving the non-recognition of male cat genitals) and Peepee Boy...our Siamese who has been missing for almost a month now. He was allowed out of the house to explore, and he never went beyond the gate. Which is why we suspect he was catnapped. He just disappeared.



He was a friendly, affectionate cat, easy for strangers to win over. He liked smelly feet, spraying our walls, being hugged, keeping us company, snuggling up with us in bed. He's the cat who won Wynn over after allowing himself to be used as a foot rug. Sure, he was never the brightest cat, but he was nonetheless good to have around, as most cats are. As the photos show, he liked being with us. We loved the semi-crossed eyes, raucous cries when the refrigerator was opened, hooked tail that caught on any wires in his path, and his silly, trusting, goofy personality.

My dad has actually wandered the neighborhood alternating between calling for him and asking neighbors if they'd seen him.

I hope he's okay. I hope someone who really wants him and is prepared to love him took him in.

And I hope he coats that person's house with his trademark weewee spraying. Because that would mean he feels he's home.

Labels: cat photos, cats