Estudyanteng Pinoy Dormitorian

Oh, I win. Ok. Let’s go home na.

A big mistake.

Since
the announcement of the bout between Manny Pacquiao and Jorge Ivan
Solis was announced, I never anticipated that the fight would be worth
exalting that Manny
Pacquiao would eventually topple down Solis. A big mismatch. A big mistake…

Jorge
Solis is a great fighter. He has never lost a fight for the past ten
years or so. But Manny Pacquiao is too good for Jorge Solis. Pacquiao
who, by hand, had rivaled and triumphed, also lost, against some of the
world’s greatest boxers. By strength, experience, discipline, among
others, Pacquiao is obviously llamado.

Anyone,
from the bestest sports analyst in the world to my pea-sized contact
sport enthusiasm, would contend to that. But Team Pacquiao intently
handpicked a non-title holder. A mile away lesser athlete. A big
dreamer. But a sure loser.

Ah… err… No. I’m not thinking about something else.

Perhaps,
Team Pacquiao ployed to have this bout an expected triumph for the
betterment of his Congressional seat. Why can’t I come up with this?
Why choose an underdog for a major sponsored tourney?

To lose?

With this, can Pacquiao afford to have his loss influence his indecisive and over-the-counter electorate for the Lower House?

Of course not.

It’s
absolutely unfair for Jorge Solis even if Pacquiao suffer a hell lot of
headbutted brow cuts, for a fight that was already foreseen to favor
the obvious victor. He gained nothing but another glory for a worthless
fight.

Oh, no. Jorge Solis is not worthless. He did his best.
But his best is bested by Pacquiao who played him around in the first
few rounds. Jorge is nonetheless a victim of a vicious whatever of Team
Pacquiao.

I’m not proud of Pacquiao’s victory. My sympathies to Solis and his over confidence.

SWEET NOTHINGS:

1. Geneva
   Cruz who performed the National Anthem for the Philippines before the
   fight, sang terribly. She is a terrible singer. Why her? It could have
   been Regine. Or Sa
2. Leonora (the one who sang for the Mexicanos) was addressed as an international singer. Umm, who is she? ^_^
3. I was laughing at this part. Guess why.

No wonder. That black American boxer slept on the ring floor with stars and butterflies circling above his head.

OJT HUNTING

I
can’t imagine how hard it is to find good slots for internship in major
TV stations in Manila. Later did we know that most of these on-the-job
trainees have already found their sweetest spots in ABS-CBN or GMA7,
two companies where I so wanted to be employed.

To those who
have the goonies with good connections with these TV stations, or any
publishing or advertising companies in Metro Manila, please… I need a
slot for my OJT in my internship subject. Please help me…

This is my resume.
E-mail: neil[dot]alexandro[at]gmail[dot]com.
Mobile: 0921-593-4749 or 0905-2473606
Landline: (046)539-0366

                                   This is my very last entry for my feature writing subject. Pwe. I’m uber plastic here. Lol.

It took me only four hours to do this article (topic: Learning). The title suggests my lousiness to think deeper. Bleh.

This
is actually our final examination–a freestyle feature writing. We only
used pseudonyms with a short description at the end of our article. Yet
even if I placed codenames, our prof said my article is very
identifiable. I don’t know how or why. Maybe because they finally knew
I’m an active blogger. Whatever.

Emo mode. Plasticity mode.

(**WARNING - Uber long emo post. ^_^)

————-

My BA Mass Comm blockmates, 1st yr. 1st sem. Firm at 35.
Now, a finger countable 18.

"Anong plano mo pagka-graduate mo ng college?”
Mom asked while I was busy solving the missing equations of Einstein’s
Theory of Everything. Then after a spare of seconds I already found
myself staring at my computer screen while pondering about the question
seriously inside my head.

    I always wanted to be alone.

When I was still young, Mom would contend with my relatives if I can go
to school already. That was 14 years ago. They were like talking in
gibberish assuming that I would not understand their vernacular Aklanon
inside our house in Caloocan. But no, what I heard was I was the most mentally incapacitated creature in our clan;
the one whom everyone in the family should grudge about. For not being
friendly and for behaving like some moronic scumbag on the bangketa
republic.

While I was the most stupid
way back, my Kuya was the most anticipated—the exact opposite of me. He
had early experiences in Karate and Judo because he
was intelligibly disciplined and smart while I was the one who wanted
wearing only my sando and my undies and called them “panty” then
destroy all my Dad’s sculpture prototypes inside his 4 feet high
cupboard. They claimed that I got my retardation for eating
cockroach eggs and safety matchstick heads. Under the kulambo, I had
the hardest times in basic Mathematical operations. Mom even tried to
put my hands in good use just to catch up with one-digit additions on
my Kuya’s textbook. But my hands just turn red with the pain brought by
the fake leather belt.

    “You’re not going to school yet, A-an.” in a motherly-accented Tagalog.

That was how early I realized that discrimination is not just limited
to ‘parloric’ gay grotesqueness and blonde women—but also for the least
Promil-nurtured, by depriving me of the proper education and the
medication–of not preparing a “baon” of Magnolia Chocolait and 2 Hapi
House biscuits inside a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunchbox. But I least cared and only had childhood jealousies.

Simultaneously pinching the bubble wraps of my Dad’s sculpture
moldings, I boasted to myself loudly out loud. “I will be the best.” A
gleam of light then shone upon me. Allelujiah.

    For 10 years, I tried everything to become ‘un’stupid.
Reading and watching a lot of cartoons, I mean. If there’s a new book,
I’d read it alone. And then play with other kids afterwards. If I
glanced on the pencils inside my pen case, I’d draw and draw until the
cows run out of milk. Alone. I tried to be best in art, in PE, in
science and mathematics, and in music. Alone. I became the school
artist. I was a regular hide-and-seeker. I was a quiz bee spammer. I
was a math wizard. And I was a showmaker who loved to joined amateur
singing contests. But never sought help from other people. ‘Kinareer ko ang aking kabataan,’
that’s how they put it. I managed my yester years with educational and
recreational activities to prove that I am not mentally retarded and
all. And yes, I proved them wrong—and did it on my own.

But I
was never really happy. For years I wanted to accomplish everything
without the help of others because of the fright that one day I might
not be able to survive in the harshest conditions of life. So I kept on
learning.

    For four years in high school, I was stuck on the disillusionment that not reviewing in verbatim our textbooks in Social Studies will ruin my social life.
As if I have a good one. I became active in extra-curricular
activities, participated in intra and interschool competitions and
leave the school with a big banner or two in front of our school
entrance. I joined a lot of organizations, became active in all of them
and then desert them for so much frustration. I took studies seriously
and my talent fostering seriously. I keep on learning and learning and
learning as if I could be oriented in a variety of sorts. And that I
have kept myself with the company of the best and the brightest in our
batch, so as not to disappoint my parents and my clan even if they
really don’t want me to be highlighted with such prestige.

    I thought I’ve become a monster who could swallow up everyone on my path.

March 23, 2004, I was speaking in front of a white dressed crowd with
my 5-page long speech sliced in paragraphs. Then I heard all the
parents clapping and saw my mom crying for so much happiness. I finally
had redemption and gained retribution with their previous belittling.
Yet, it was not noticed in my speech that my knees were severely
shaking and my nerves already wracking to bits, not because of stage
fright but because of the graduation aftermath.

    What will I see in college?

    In college, it’s a whole lot different. It’s different from our high school setup. It’ll not be the same people I’ve used to linger with, to converse with, and to debate with.
It’ll be entering a new community of people from all walks, if not, the
extremes of life. Since then I started having doubts if I will be able
to cope with the changes of the setting and the characters involved in
this short story entitled “College Life”—if ever I can be happier.

    When I was in high school, everything is mandatory, especially in the creamiest sections. Everything is competition. There, you’ll see dogs bite each other’s torsos for the limelight of getting into the honor roll. There, backstabbing is rampant. One student may speak ill against the other to estrange him and become the topic of discussion—to be ridiculed and become insecure.
There, you can participate and collaborate. There, you must keep
yourself on the pace of the marathon. But in my experience in post high
school graduation, it’s a lot better. Happiness is crabbing and retribution except for the never-care-about-my-report-card students.

    But in college, it really is different.

    When I entered our very first class, there were some noisy people along the corridor.
Mass Comm students, I presume, so I approached the pack one meter away
from them. Then there is this one spur of silence upon my arrival.
After a short while, one dared to ask.

    “Sir, kayo po ba prof naming sa Bio Lab?” (Are you the Bio Lab professor?)

A few hours later, I found myself laughing with them by admitting I am
2 years younger than them. And then I though, “I think I’ll enjoy this
than before.”

College is a melting pot of races and
personalities. In short, diversity. Here, you can decide if you will
take life seriously or not. Here, you can choose your friends. You can
choose if you’re going to attend classes. You are not secluded in a
room where dogs bite each other’s torsos. You might, but it’ll be rare.
And here, you are concentrated on one specialization—the course you
wrote in on your pre-registration.

    For three years, I’m with a company of different people. There are clowns who will make up for the brightest of the day. There are the easy-go-lucky’ers who are not really that annoying but they collaborate with the clowns to make the day even brighter. There are silent types who prefer to chew their nails off than talking to the clowns. There are monsters, who either excel in academics or it’s just that their faces are practically deformed. There are smart people, and there are not so smart people. There are rich, and there are some who still can eat 3 times a day without extra rice on the side. There are ‘sociables’ and socialites. I was among the ‘unsociables’.But
being with them, I have learned a lot of lessons. Lessons that I never
garnered from all the literary pieces in our English Communication
subjects in elementary and highschool. Lessons that I will only learn
from good people. From truthful people. From real people.

    The
previous extreme years of my childhood happened to have molded the
monster in me of becoming so independent in terms of my outlook in life.
That I can face challenges on my own without having to get a greater
grip in the realization of ‘pain’ in life. That I can live by just
learning everything only by myself, like my Dad wants me to do. Indeed,
I have achieved the satisfaction of putting myself back to our family’s
map that there is someone like me who can be on top of the others in
terms of achievements and mental capacity whatever. But honestly, deep
inside me, I was never happy.

Because of Arabelle’s punches and
Jopay dance moves, because of Ichu’s Janggeum talent in impersonation,
of Kuya Butterfly’s standup comedy, of Daryl’s living Chicken Soup for
the Soul, of Zeus’ proactive perspective in democracy, of Kuya Emman’s
simple pleasures in music and humility, of Timmy’s fashion sense and
practicality, of Emrose’s Pops Fernandez attitude, of Darwin’s being
who he/she really is, of Aga’s effort to make history in vocal prowess,
of Ces’ Chaka Khan ear-piercing voice, of Jhonatan’s logic way of
ridiculing your truly, of Ate Rochelle’s unpredictable movement of her
skeletal system, of Ate Gen’s generosity in financial assistance and
cellphone loads, of Ate Nancy’s thoughtfulness in organizing things and
mandatory ‘volunteerism’, of Leoni’s cellphones and boyfriends and
agonizing dysmenorrhea, of Krizelle’s down-to-earth monstrosity in
singing, of Jayson’s laughable defamation of people around him, and of
all the teachers like Ma’am Lisette, Ma’am Joyce, Ma’am Nomananap, Sir
Cruzate, Sir Anciano, Ma’am Lising, and all who thought I can be good
or better without exerting too much effort…

    I’ve learned that I must live to love other people and myself rather than being so much egomaniacal.

We’ve been in the good times and the bad. After graduation, I don’t
know what will happen to me or to anybody else…It’s my very first time
that I really gained true friends. That I learned that friendship is
not compensating to class cards.

    Now, I still have no plans of what to do after college. All because of not wanting to be alone anymore.

I’m not alone anymore. No, I didn’t learn how to statistically analyze
the relationship of mass awareness to news & public affairs. I
gained friends. True friends that I would long for when I’m solitary.
That’s what I didn’t get in high school. That’s what I’ve really
learned in college.

Kids under hostage
seemed not to worry about everything.

March
28, 2007, I had my eyes and ears stuck nearly permanently on the TV
screen (I didn’t know how to until lately) when a flash report came in.
Thirty two preschoolers and four teachers were in a hostage of, surprisingly, the owner of their school, Mr. Jun Ducat.

At first I thought, was he mentally disturbed? Another public show of republic disgrace to the unjust abuses of the high class? And oh, another hostage after the tragic forgettable other?

Perhaps I would nod on that. It was a play production of someone who might have been desperado in providing for other people.

The hostage drama was no like other. The
bus venue was ingenious. The children being held captive was superb.
The no-choice-but-to-cry-a-river teachers were slightly antagonistic.
But it was not the innocence of the children nor the weeping of their
parents or the career moves of our dirty policemen. But the motive, the
demands,

Freer education and decent shelter for their families…

A whopping standing ovation.

The
hostage drama was a jawdropper for me. It broke out the culture in me
that most of our hostage takings here in the Philippines would be
another personal distress similar to stereotypical Filipino action
movies-personal redemption of honor, vengeance for being minisculed,
money of some sorts, or simply foreplaying. As far as I know, hostage
taking is more of personal reception.

But this time, he demands the benefits not for Ducat himself, but for the kids he staged as threat to be demised.

Why
would a person, an apparently altruistic one such as Ducat, resort to a
desperate move that would endanger his students, his employed faculty,
and others within the premise of the scenario for ‘education and
shelter’?

It’s because he knows that it would take 48 years or more for Malacanang to grant their promises.

Armando
"Jun" Ducat Jr., as far as I know, built a school (ie. Day Care Center)
using his own money. He provided appropriate school amenities using his
own money. He spends thousands of pesos for the salary of his teachers
using his own money. He buys clothes, school supplies, and other
facilities and equipment for such small scale academic institution
using his money. Later did I know that he has just undergone angioplasty so he might have run out of funds to suffice his future personal and interpersonal expenditures.

But
it is definitely wrong. I cannot tolerate his courageous act of having
these innocent kids to be traumatized by such criminal act.

However, I changed my mind since Ducat does not want to kill the children, successful or not, in the first place.

Ducat in detention with his wife and… a ghost?

No
one in this country would dare puts himself in critical condition. Not
even Mme. President nor Lito Atienza himself would showcase bravery and
justice for those who’ve been deprived by what they should’ve been
provided with for the past few years. Never.

Yes, it was a wrongful act of illegally apprehending innocent civilians to be under captivity and threat of annihilation.

But for those who consider that in this country people can only achieve the impossible by doing the impossible,
I would not effort to ponder and waste so much calories in thinking and
clasping my fingers. Is that what Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo and Lito
Atienza call as ‘justice’? Or plain arrogance because some low profile
Ducat blemished this blemishable country the Philippines?

Compare
it to our present administration and its cohoots in the military and
police, at least he did wrong for his instigation of righteousness. Not
pretentiously doing right for the promotion of civil abuse and human
rights violations.

——

Children of Parola, Manila cheering for the freedom of
their benefactor, Jun Ducat.

Even if Ducat is in prison, he was successful.

1. AMA promised to provide scholarships for all the kids, from elementary to college.

2. Parents of the former captives would praise him for his courageous act and would never care about what he did to their children.

3.
DSWD and DOLE finally paved their negligent arses to the slum areas of
Tondo to check the conditions of the families–to provide health and
economic assistance (in short, employment).

4. Took attention of foreign press for his deed.

5. Slapped Arroyo et al on their faces for their micro societal negligence.

Pathetic it was when I heard one of Arroyo’s proctors in the field trip of the 26 captives in Malacañang saying that ‘they were doing such not because of Ducat but because of their eager agencies to provide services for those who need it’.

Sinong niloko niyo?

———

Politicking always finds a place to bug out of the blue, even at the harshest times.

Ramon "Bong" Revilla, Jr. was there pala in the hostage crisis, my boobtube screamed at me. I thought there would be shrills of titillation but no. I was just disgusted.
I thought I would be frustrated for not seeing Bong in his red-caped
yellowish polyester fitted costume with a spanking big CB
print/embroidery on his chest. Seizing the day, huh?

Ducat never
called his attention, nor any celebrity in the world. The police would
never/should never call his attention unless it is of dire need that a
handsome yet potbellied action star turned politico is summoned by the
hostage taker et al. But he managed to put up a show that Captain
Barbell has just saved a feverish kid which in fact has just been
lifted 2 meters from the bus doorstep and carried to a ’supposedly the
proper authorized personnel’.

And then Chavit entered the scene
when darkness crawled the venue. I was just confused. Ducat was calling
for aide to provide children and their families because of government
deprivation. Government deprivation is resulted from graft corruption.
Chavit Singson looks like a corrupt. So why bother?

Singson was obviously a juggling jester who pretended to possess still his police prowess and saved the day by escorting Ducat outside to detention,
held the no-boomer grenade and gun, waved his hands with his
ugly-looking yellow lens filtered spectacles, and made kembot that he was invincible for 5 minutes. And the policemen allowed it.

Now that’s what we call ‘obvious politicking’.

—————-

In spite of my preparation to attend the formal/semi formal/pretending to be formal for good time’s sake Philippine Blog Awards night, I wasn’t able to collect money from you blog readers and friends whom I thought would sympathize to my poverty.. shoo!
my mom for the transpo. Mom did have enough money, but huhuhuhu… Kuya
Prince had no allowance for his hospital duty. Huhuhuhuhu..

Blatantly stolen from Jhed. Whatever. =_=;;

Huhuhuhuu….
Nah, why attend? I know I will not win. The raffle? Nah, even if I win,
some blogger might block me at the exit, maul me to paralysis and then
steal my little iPodee from my shack. Sourgraping.

Boo. I envy you guys.

Editing several hour footages of interviews and scoops and compressing
it to 7 minutes are not that easy, especially when you haven’t outlined
how your news report should look like.

Here is our investigative/interpretative report about the Sangguniang Kabataan and its pending abolition in the Philippines.

I
know it’s not that good because it’s my first time to use Sony Vegas in
editing. It’s our very first time to do an actual 7-minute (difficult)
news coverage of an issue scooped for 3 months (really really
difficult). Imagine–to compress everything to 7 minutes? Sheesh. I
can’t imagine how difficult news reporting is to neophytes like moi.
hehe.

What do you think? Are you in favor of the SK abolition
and its substitute or should the Congress digress more issues about the
youth and tackle something else more significant for their welfare?

——-

BTW, I’m still uber busy. My apologies again if I can’t visit your blogs. Huhuhu.

——-

I know I’m not gonna win.
I’m estupido. Stupid people don’t win ^_^

And hey, I know I will not win but I want to attend the Philippine Blog Awards night on March 31, 2007. I don’t have the money. Please donate for my pamasahe. I would really want to. Hahahaha. Lol.

neil[dot]alexandro[at]gmail[dot]com

Writing a diary has never been this progressive… and interactive.

I once had a diary for the year 2000. Not sure if the book that I purchased was really a diary because of its odd per hora
text lines. But I was sure I bought an expensive book because each time
I turned the pages, I felt the factory air-conditioning sensation with
some tangy twists of tree blossoms and dried lemon grass leaves. Plus
the gold leaf lining on the page edges.

The diary was hardbound,
with this weird shining, shimmering, splendid ribbon marker that was
slid permanently on the contacts pages, and lots of sections which, at
first, I didn’t understand.

I opted to write short one-liner
summaries per hour, usually done during recess or lunch breaks in
school. Soon, I got tired with the detailing and went on living with
the diary kept inside my cabinet as a luxury.

I
tried listing every single detail that happened in my high school life.
Everything that happened inside our school was noted because almost a
fraction of our teenage lives are spent inside the campus (which I
tried to enjoy). Luckily, no one, not even those who meddled inside my
closet reading it secretly, understood what I was writing on it.

I
once had this enthusiasm to create code alphabets. Codes which are
essentially useless for the development of our society and the
education sector. I just devised special codes to, of course, make
everything in my life as cryptic as possible.

I have created 5
alphabets–the last one (based on Korean and Chinese) happens to be my
personal favorite since it is very pictographic and can be properly
implemented in almost every language in the world. There’s this one
code that I forgot already because of not regularly using it during my
elementary and highschool years. Some of them, mostly my creations when
I was 10 years old, are so complex, I can’t imagine where in the world
I got the nerve to build such codes for the benefit of myself.

Would you believe that this scribble means ‘magic’?
It’s ’salamangka’ in transliteration.

With
rules such as syllabic markings, same-letter policies, noun-verb
varieties of initial letters, right-to-left reading, accentuations…
each alphabet has its own identity, looks, and proper usage.

For
example, my box-type tailed no-space alphabet is only used for events
inside the school. Stresses are marked with slashes and dots, and
initial letters of sentences had varieties. And if I refer to names of
my childhood enemies, letters would be written squiggly and had jagged
flourishes.

Ako - Enemy edition

When
my dad bought us that damned bulky Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, I
started reading it and became familiar with the foreign alphabet
formations and evolution. It later influenced one of my codes which I
derived from the Cyrillic alphabet of the Russians. I even created a
code based from the Arabic series, but made them very very complicated
to understand. Not even my Science teacher understood my writings in my
notebook when she required us to submit it as final requirement for the
subject.

Neil Brian - in print and cursive forms

My
crave for manufacturing codes probably profused because of my childhood
interest in learning many languages. I have studied so many languages,
I sometimes forgot most of my Tagalog vocabulary and relied on the
lexicon for years. Seeing me making friends with my foreign classmates,
parasitize them, and squeeze their intelligent juices to teach me about
their alphabet and vocabulary could be a routine if I’m your seatmate.
Just kidding. I just ask them a few questions then I do the rest.

My
diary writing just died out. Unlike someone I know who fancied her
journals neatly and hippy, I go with the formal, business-like
editions. Yet for 6 years, I’ve only done 2 diaries and consumed only
20 pages each.

And with the codes I use, I just demonstrate to
people how secretive I am when it comes to personal life. I
occasionally tell stories to my close friends, but my love life? No. No
one knows except my nose.

I am no extroverted guy who simply
discloses lots of details to anybody personally. I’m one odd creature
hard to dig in. So hard to interpret, when everybody in the classroom
shouts truth or consequence, I always run for my life. If caught, I’ll
make sure I cast a show that will convince them to slice my stomach
first before getting my precious golden eggs. Or speak Latin, Mandarin
Chinese, or Canadian French rapidly and wait them nosebleed.

I admit. I am weird sometimes.

And perhaps, you guys are lucky that you can read me because of this blog. And even taunt me. Oh well.

Asne mushti ivi dini luna pashnea.

Five days ago since I last browsed the internet with flawlessly fast
speed and unlimited access to almost every type of website. Now, five
days in a row, myglobe.com.ph, plus the forever living Yahoo!,
is the only website that I could visit in my danged multi-operating
system computer that runs 800 mHz with a broadband speed of 4 kilobytes
per second. I wanna faint.

(My regular visitors might be aware
that) I am fond of intimidating people, though at times I’d rather
refrain looking like one because of my continuous attempt to have some
fashion overhaul. Of course, I intimidate people for a purpose… for a
cause… occasionally, to speed things up.

The very last time I waited long enough was 18 hours–and
it’s for a swimming spree. I don’t know how blind I was when I braced
my batchmate’s house in Silang, Cavite to have waited in such a
splendid amount of time. Now I’m done with it.

I was uber
punctual years before I joined the student publication, though
sometimes I reach our rendezvous 5 minutes later. The only thing that
kept me waiting is someone that would accompany me waiting. If I’m
alone, I always think about the kamote (sweet potato) sprouts to plant in my backyard. Kamote sprouts… holy cow.

I
know the feeling of someone who have prepared so much for an
appointment, especially in early meetings, compromising other
priorities such as late-night TV viewing (no. 1 priority other than
doing assignments) and other recreations just to sleep early for the
rooster wake-up. Only to discover that on your next precious day you
find yourself savoring free facial makeup from the particulates
suspended in the air. Filipino time.

Filipinos
don’t want to wait for others, so they rather see others wait for them
by intentionally slowing their pace of movement in taking a shower,
dressing up, wearing the stupid pink blush-on powders and all–the main
rationale of this internationally-acclaimed Pinoy tardiness. They
intentionally keep others waiting, to the point that these people would
look like instant celebrities even if their faces don’t qualify to be
one. And then they will apologize, in a tone like you’ve only waited
for about 5 minutes simultaneously with the cake you’ve dropped on the
floor (which, they claim, is still safe to eat).

So I started
patronizing the custom to be more Filipino. I’ve suffered enough. I’ve
longed enough to bear with all their excuses. If we agree to meet at
7:00, expect them to come at 8:30. Which, in fact, always happens. I
envy Lea Salonga. When they are expected to come at 9 am, everyone
comes thirty minutes earlier, then they start their production at
exactly 9. The Japanese run on their satellite-subscribed clocks. If
it’s rush hour, it really is rush hour. Here in the Philippines, rush hour is when you forgot to bring your attaché case at home in the middle of a rowdy traffic.

But for a mandatory and obligatory paid service like my internet connection? No c’est la vie’s for me.

Whenever we have connection problems, I always call our service provider’s customer service hotline 171-2310. 2310,
note that. Then you’ll hear Christian Bautista or Josh Groban singing
their all time hits, which is kinda nice, but will pull your ears off
when listening for a long time. Then it’ll take you forever waiting for
the customer service representative to accommodate you.
And finally…

Globe: Welcome to Globelines Technical Support Service, may I help you?
Neil: I didn’t listen to your recorded advisory to ask you about this. What the hell is happening to our broadband connection?
Globe: (swallows, getting a grip for some English twang). Well sir, can I ask your name first?
Neil: (hysterically provocative) I’ll give you my mom’s name instead since she owns this account. (insert mommy here)
Globe: (cleans throat). Uhmm, ah eh… can I get your internet phone number?
Neil: I gave you my mother’s name already. Ok, fine, wait just a minute.
(hangs phone to get our monthly bill)
Neil: (insert number here).
Globe: (typing, and typing, just to prolong and divert the conversation). Okay sir, can I confirm that you live in Cavite area.
Neil: Obviously, yes.
Globe:
Well, for now, your account is subjected to network restoration that’s
why you are having difficulties in connecting to your broadband
connection.
Neil: I think the recorder said that already.
Globe: (silence, pondering about my previous statement.)
Neil: Approximately how long is this so-called ‘network restoration’?
Globe: As soon as possible, sir…
Neil: How long is this soon as possible?
Globe: Sir, you just wait for the connection to resume, sir.
Neil:
(mild angry tone, without breathing) For 5 days straight?! I think
that’s unfair for us your customers to pay 15 hundred bucks for an
internet connection that stops once in a while—you know, we are doing
all our documents for the following year, and then you give us this
network restoration that’s taking 48 years to finish? How long should
we wait? And we still have to pay 1500 for the bill on the 29th? That’s
totally unfair, ma’am.
Globe:
Sir, we cannot do anything about your problem for now (with a placating
tone). But I promise you that your account will be on the priority list
to regain internet access (with typing sounds) as soon as our network
restoration is completed.
Neil: (silence)
Globe: Umm, sir, can I ask your name first?
Neil: Neil. Neil Bernardo.
Globe: Okay sir neil, you’ll be connected in the next few hours after this phone call.
Neil: Okay. Thanks.
Globe: (with a somewhat mild breath) Thank you for calling Globelines.

(Call dropped.)

My
point? Dial the Tagalog customer service hotline and speak with all
your greatest English twang in a professional, but less
procrastinating, tone.

And don’t accept c’est la vie, no matter what. Take advantage of the semi-socialite caste system.

 
Christmas break is no Christmas break for me (and to the rest who would want to agree).

One big headache for us junior journalism students is our Law of Mass Communication subject, where intimidation and provocative discourse are the delicacies of our Wednesday quorums. Where every Wednesday is always Hell Day.

It
was only last Monday when we only realized our super high, but super
high(?), Cavite State University Library slash museum has already
purchased (in spite of all our frustrations for their ‘yellowish
artifacts’ in the building) a complete set of Supreme Court Reports Annotated (SCRA).
Since our campus has opened admission for students in Bachelor of Law,
these SCRAs would be accessible for our law students (ah ok) and to the
rest of our colleagues who wished to end their lives through over nose bleeding¹.

But
unfortunately, the library staff is still enjoying sniffing the aircon
odors of the hardbound books delivered. They have to bookmark them on
the catalogue, yet, so no borrow. My classmate (who went there) just
smirked.

We’ve already planned an option to go to the UP Library
or the Arellano Law Library for the SCRAs. But the threat of our
intimidating prof professor (who was amazed by yours truly, haha) that
we will lose our lives if we don’t summarize the so-claimed SCRAs
forced us to pay gold. Imagine our faces when we heard our professor
that these 15 (minus one, I dunno why) SCRAs are approximately a
hundred page each. Plus the f*ck factor.

Are you kidding me? And who’s gonna research everything?

"Neil, tinatanong pa ba yan?²", one exclaimed.

For
the trip, the whole class has to contribute a hundred peso each that
would accumulate three hundred pesos for our fare, one hundred pesos
for the initial photocopy of the SCRAs, and only a hundred pesos for my
lunch. Life is so unfair.

"How about my talent fee? My recreational fee? Labor? And the VAT (Value Added Tax)?"

A book flew in mid-air.

——

10
am, and it was the last day of Arellano Law School to accommodate
students in their library. The ultimatum was so bad, so many students
have already queued for the photocopy of the SCRAs inside the
photocopying center beside the library. Ate Gen (a classmate) and I,
with all our paawa effect³
powers, wins immunity–we convinced the lady to pend our SCRAs first…
to think that she still has to look for 200 more SCRAs already queued
by the students since Tuesday two weeks ago. Oh well, life is just so unfair. (evil laugh)

We
still have to wait until 5 pm for the output, so we decided to cool
ourselves in a nearby mall. Unfortunately, both of us are G.I. Geographically idiot,
that is. We have to guess what mall is nearest to our location. I’m no
Manila boy. We lived in Manila for 5 years when I was too young to
worry about wearing only my undies outside our house. A bus en route to
SM Southmall passed by. Great! Southmall is nearby, we thought. But before we even reach a quarter to Southmall, we gaze outside our window and saw planet Earth.

It’s SM Mall of Asia.

Finally, setting my third world foot on le supermall grande royale.

We
got off the bus and walked along the roadsides of the highway, thinking
that the mall is nearest to us. But it isn’t–the mall is just so big.
We didn’t think it’s a kilometer away from us.
I don’t mind walking on long distances, but Ate Genipher has to bear
with my misadventures. Poor Ate Gen, she has no choice but to walk with
me along the highway. We thought of riding a jeep, but will the
jeepneys hover for us? We walked instead.

What did we do in MOA?

Nothing but to go to the restroom and eat chicken–for 7 hours straight.
We just walked and walked and walked and envy the Metropolitan elite
who doesn’t bother spending a lot inside that prestigious shopping
center. What can I do with a hundred peso allowance inside the 3rd largest mall in the world?

Nah, we just took the SCRA photocopies and fled.

—–

I misunderstood Christmas.

Spending is sharing in itself. By just purchasing the cheapest baratillo/tiangge⁴
items for your gifts to your loved ones (haha) you’ve contributed much
to the economy of the black China market. You fool yourself in
disbelief that your hundred peso t-shirt (which in just one look you’ll
determine it’s ‘made from UK’^5. Whatever) is in fact bought for at least 30 pesos a piece from the pier.

Spending for many gifts is troublesome.
Receiving many gifts is more troublesome, especially when you receive
an item that’s for sure a good buy from the tiangge, or you just
receive the same item over and over again.

Christmas brings the spirit of tranquility and sharing. So why not share your belongings to the Budol-budol⁶
gang? If someone points a dagger at you, smile and greet him Merry
Christmas. Then give your everything. Savor the spirit of Christmas,
where crime rate is at its summit every year.

Christmas brings back your childhood memories.
When you have godchildren already, you’ll recall every single rule of
Hide-and-seek simply by not replying to them when they ask you the very
most hated question of all the Christmas seasons that have passed
especially if you run out of money–"Namamasko po!"⁷.

In our case, we simply placed a large cardboard with a big "Patawad po!"⁸.
So whenever someone attempts to sing outlandishly out-of-tune in front
of our house, no wonder they suddenly stopped singing. And hello? Some
children even carol as early as December 9. Sheesh.

Christmas is New Year’s Eve.

Now
this is stupid. The heck these Filipinos fire their PVC guns and
crackers during Christmas. Hello? Isn’t Christmas a solemn celebration
of the so-called birth of Jesus Christ? Why fire up super lolos and
kwitis, huh? Stupid Filipinos. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Christmas break is Christmas break. Yeah
right. The right opportunity for all the teachers and professors out
there to lazy on their attendance for the remaining two working weeks
of December and piled every unnecessary project to be submitted on the
resume of classes. Yeah right again.

Christmas’ Misa de Gallo is "Simbang Gabi" in Tagalog translation, meaning "Night Mass".
Now this is funny. You take a shower and dress up as early as 10 pm and
wake up 3 am without brushin your teeth. What else? You cannot listen
religiously to the priest’s sermon because you are worried about your
posh and glimmer or is just that you are already holding your nose for
the mixed-up oxygen and carbon dioxide. You are worried because you
might not see your loved one. And you only go to early because you have
a date so you can eat puto bungbong and bibingka⁹. And it’s not a night mass. Duh? 3 am a night mass?

Christmas is Christmas.
There are doubts about the exact birthdate of Christ. Just like our
very own CvSU Centennial Celebration’s arguments on its exact date of
establishment, Christmas is said to be born on September. So why
celebrate?

Christmas is supposed to be happy.

…

Why can’t I?

1
- An idiom in the Philippines–when someone is bombarded with high
falutin English vocabulary, they nosebleed. 2 - "Is there any need to
ask about that?" 3 - "Have mercy on us" effect 4 - open-air market 5 -
Ukay-ukay, term used for open-air shops selling smuggled second-hand
clothes/items from abroad. 6 - A popular syndicate in the Philippines
that hypnotizes victims for money 7 - "Begging for alms" Christmas
edition 8 - Sorry. 9 - Native delicacies in the Philippines
occasionally served during Christmas season

  "Naku, Neil Brian, manang-mana talaga kayong lahat sa Daddy niyo^[1]," Mom uttered after she has slapped my thighs about a hundred times already for not waking myself up on time.

My Dad had been self-supporting; his drunkard father didn’t support his schooling. He spent his teenage years selling pan de sal and street varieties and worked with his uncles sculpting wood and escayola^[2] in Paete, Laguna.
Luck opened opportunities, and he found himself working with a wealthy
Arab national for Islamic carvings even though he finished drafting
technology in TUP. Now, a China-based American designing firm promoted
him to be the supervisor of all the craftsman in Dolan Designs.

"Hay Neil, sanay ka nang turuan ang sarili mo, kaya yayaman ka siguro pagka-graduate mo."^[3]

I have never been punctual.

According to my mom, I always do, and even prioritize, unnecessary things like my father. Overdues are our meriendas.
We spend more that we should. Not necessarily referring to money, but
in an exemplary, we kill time for drawing for long hours, we read for
long hours, we use our PC for long hours. Therefore, we sleep for long
hours. I love sleeping.

I learn without learning.

I do
not focus on my studies religiously. But I learn. I am not bothered in
my grades, but I worry about my scholarship (we’re under austerity
measures). Anyway, my professors love me because I am smart. Haha.

"Mamaya na"^[4] habit

I love cramming. My dad loves cramming. But we always finish on time. And if we didn’t, we still make it. Much of our delight.

Mom
even finds our dad’s resemblance when I eat and walk. And sometimes,
she tells me I have inherited most of my dad’s characteristic traits
than my brothers. I pondered.

Yes, we know how to handle a spoon
and a fork. But even if I have a fork on my plate, I use my hands to
churn on the meat and use my fingers to dip it in ketchup, soy sauce,
or the Filipino Mang Tomas sauce. Then the spoon comes in filled with rice. Baboy^[5], ano?

I
am not flat-footed–all my brothers are. But the bulk on our knees make
us pace like we’re gonna tumble somebody down. We don’t walk
awkwardly… I don’t know
what my mom was saying. Though I’ve
noticed the bone bump on my brothers’ shoulders which I don’t have and
is not related to the previous sentence.

I am the fairest of
them all. No, I am not Snow White. But I sometimes been compared to a
skinless turnip beside three potatoes. And most of the time, I am told
to be the best-looking. Haha.

I am the most intelligent daw^[6].
I disagree. Though I have grabbed most of our academic and interschool
competition awards at home, I still salute my Kuya for being so
logically smart. Think about the most common sensed-tagged syllogisms
in the world, and he can abide. I just sophisticate and complicate
things. That’s why in decision-making, Kuya is always there. The house
can live without Neil saying anything.

I am more inclined to art
than the rest of my brothers. They assumed I am more willing to spend
my life in aesthetics than them by just placing all my masterpieces to
theirs. But I suppose I have just affiliated my talents to a wider
scope, and not only in art. I don’t know how to explain it… I just
avoid comparing my craft to my brothers because I find it merely
bragging. Haha. Showing-off.

Even if in my utmost sincerity to
have identified my Dad’s resemblances in me, I still pave more slots in
our contrasts. Which I apparently have no time identifying.

————-

I
think I am getting more serious in my studies. I didn’t notice in a
snap I’ve already bought an Inquirer newspaper a while ago thinking
that it’ll help in my bad writing (which I demonstrate right now.) I’ve
also done our assignments in advance. Gawd. I don’t wanna be me.

————-

Me
and my three siblings had the greenest thumbs in arts–the deepest
exaltation of my Mom that none of us had the similar stick-figures she
did when she was still making fun of her expensive fountain pens. None
of us are not capable of drawing lines straight without rulers. And I
never compared my craft to them, though I am easily flattered when my
younger brothers consult me when they are troubled in some drawings
which I respectfully responded with…

"Tinuruan ko ang sarili kong matuto sa ganyan, kaya matuto kayo sa sarili n’yo…" ^[7]

Bwahahaha.

Not
because of selfishness, but of independence. I’ve been independent in
nurturing what is now my specialty. I didn’t rely much to our Dad. Cite
the number of years he has been spending working abroad. I don’t want
them to be so dependent to their older brothers like what other
youngest siblings do in their families. (Mind you, I’m not the eldest.)

————-

The faculty of Languages and Mass Communication seemed to have alloted a slot for me in their peer. Like, oh Neil, you’re here. How are you.
And they crack jokes, as if they are of the same age as mine. They ask
me like I’m their classmate. I find it kinda fishy. They are getting
closer to me, and my classmates find an instrument for bridging them to
the professors.

The most intimidating teachers of our college
getting closer to me? Or it’s just because I am the most intelligent
and the most talented student in CAS who worried much on his pimples
rather than memorizing the Bill of Rights? Haha. Probably, they are
courting me to win another news reporting competition somewhere in
Cavite? Or maybe they have just found a use of me in making all their
largely-imprinted majestically-presented tarpaulins in our university?

Utu-uto^[8].

1. You’re really like your father.
2. Plaster of Paris
3. Oh Neil, you might become wealthy with your self-orientation when you graduate.
4. "Will do it later"
5. Swine
6. according to some people
7. Teach yourself. I learned everything only by myself .
8. Dumbass.

According to our most reliable re-sour-ces, it’s signal no. 3 in Cavite.

Two
days ago, after receiving some late night news updates about a tropical
storm fast approaching the Philippines, I was jumping and shouting
(subconsciously) like Sarah Geronimo and her panty liner. Classes are
suspended in Metro Manila, including nearby provinces. Cavite is
spelled in capital letters on the rolling text. A storm mightier than
Milenyo and Winnie will unleash its hydrous devastation. Three super
typhoons in a row. No classes, alas. No electricity for several days, [*insert cuss words here]. No Ma’am Viado, No Ma’am Diloy, No Ma’am Ilagan. No Cavite State University. Just me and my El amor en los tiempos del cólera.

Few
hours later, PAGASA confirmed that tropical storm Reming changed its
course, directing its strongest winds in Mindoro as claimed by the
forecasts. Metro Manila inhabitants queered. Their smiles imply gimmick
and sleeping. But PAGASA further threatened that Reming can pre-empt
its direction. I smirked. Suffering is the understatement.

So I fully understand that we’re still gonna have bad weather since Reming’s coverage is humongously wide, not a single pinch of sky blue can be found
except the paint job in my room. In fact, signal no. 3 is raised here
in Cavite already. The storm warning purportedly states
semi-devastation; gales that would swish big tree branches along their
direction, and terra-cotta pots smashing in roarness galore. Oh, and
don’t forget the parakeets who seemed to silence themselves and produce
non-hatching eggs inside their cages. My fear of electricity outage is
on its peak. I can’t live without my electric fan.

10 hours have
passed. Mom succeeded drying my 7-kilo clothes. Teri is playing Legend
of Zelda. I can still hear Willie Revillame singing Boom Tarat. Right
now, it’s signal no. 1. I’m yawning.

I wanna throw a stone at PAG-ASA.

———-

Mike
Arroyo, and his bite-size wife Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo (she does not
deserve the prefix) was rushed to the hospital. Some Myna bird told me
the fatso First Gentleman is undergoing an angioplasty. Blocked blood
vessels? Hahahaha.

And even GMA accompanied her. The hospital staff gagged their mouths to disclose any information about their confinement.

Last
week, they prompted to St. Luke’s Hospital for a so-called ‘executive
checkup’. The doctor assigned pronounced good health and long life for
both of them except Mike’s fats getting flabbier in direct proportion
to the amount he’s taking from our shipping line.

Gloria Arroyo
was confined to St. Luke’s six months ago because of diarrhea. The next
month, she was attacked with flu. The eve of my birthday owned her
executive checkup.

Awooo. I wish them fewer days to procrastinate.

————-

I
am happy to know that our adopted puppy, MC, has found better home in
the hands of my classmate Ara. Only us have the heart to take care of
the puppy religiously unlike my housemates who seemed to loved it when
it was still small and cute and not barking. They don’t even care about
its daily bathing, and of plasticity they claimed they loved the puppy,
loved dogs and finally their true colors showed their negligence to it
after growing up. I hate them.

———-

Stray cats seemed to have their guts up surging in our residence. Kapal ng mukha.
All they know is to flirt with humans for food. And after eating, they
scram, as if they don’t know anybody except at par some goon is trying
to catch them for siopao. Kapal talaga ng mukha. And they always make sure their leftovers are rolling everywhere. Napakakapal talaga ng mukha. We’ve attempted to extinguish them with rat poison, but their stomachs are tough.

Arrrgh. The nerve.

No. Not Noynoy.

Some
of my classmates told me about a book that interprets people’s
personalities in birthdays using different astrological media. To tell
you the truth, each time I read these forecasts, I am usually heard
saying, "Ganun? Muolleh? Keure? Talaga?"–either of these four.

————-

When my classmates people ask me about my birthday, I’d say "Same as Ninoy Aquino’s".

Three of us eldest sons of the family have the same birthdays with some notable heroes in the Philippines.

My eldest brother, Prince, whom I’m not in good terms with (which translates to ‘no casual conversation’, ‘no tone of reverence in replying’, and ‘no talking to him when I don’t have to routine so just talk to my lawyer if you want to read my last will and testament, ok?’ routine) celebrates with Gregorio del Pilar, a young but intelligent general of his ages. No wonder both of them are intelligent and stubborn.

Henry, brother next to me, doesn’t talk too much because he’s suplado and he has a lot of energy to save for having too much admirers. But the Ama ng Wikang Pambansa
(Father of the National Language) ex-Pres. Manuel L. Quezon popped out
of Maria Molina’s pussy the very same day as my brother’s. I guess my
brother will be a blabbermouth later on, but knowing my brother as a
Casanova? Hmmm, I’ll ask his third generation namesake descendant.

And me? Should I be proud of having the same birthday as the
husband of an Orocan elementary teacher turned forgettable President
and the father of an intelligent but voluptuously barbaric coño flirt
hag Kris Aquino and the grandfather of a clinically proven retard
son-of-an-action-star? (what a run-on ^_^)

Of course, yes. I wanna be on TV.

Subconsious speaks to Neil:
Oh, so you’d like to see yourself getting killed in your next
international flight which I presume would be one of your TV guestings
in the US? Cracking your face on the concrete floor from a two-storey
high airplane would make you ugly on your crematory rights. Well
anyway, you’ll be pulverized in extreme heat, so vanity doesn’t make
sense.

I need a class of water.

———

Had some remarkable firsts during most of the previous birthdays I passed through.

1. First field trip, November 27, 1997
2. First gift from a girl, November 27, 1995
3. First gift from a boy, November 27, 1994
4. First watch, November 27 year of something
5. First trip to Baguio, November 27, 2003
6. First perfected periodical exam in Statistics and Algebra, November 27, 2004
7. First Starstruck, November 27, 2004

I planned to finally go to Enchanted Kingdom
today. But unfortunately this year, we have no money. I have no
trasportation allowance this week. Zero balance. I’m supposed to attend
our French 1 class but I’m still here in Dasma. I need a hundred pesos
to go to Indang.

Hmmm… seems like I have to wait another year before at last I could set my third world foot to a place where no Filipino kid has missed during their educational field trips…

Joyeux anniversaire à moi.

———-

… I guess my Dad has forgotten about my birthday.

Oh well, I’m already used to it.

Hmm… he said he didn’t. I told him. Now, he will not. ^_^