They smelled of Aratilis, and childhood memories came flashing back to me unexpectedly. Memories much older than Raspberry Crush cologne, Obsession perfume, and Johnson's baby cologne regular.
But it is of the same time period as Johnson and Johnson's No Tears Shampoo.
Then I remembered that it was the one thing I missed during last years Christmas season. It was hot then, and made the season missing something.
Around a few minutes, after crossing Congressional at Mindanao Avenue, the kid fidgeted and cried out: “ Daddy…”
“Ano yun anak?” Asked the Dad. Both him and mommy were concerned.
“Computer…” she replied.
The couple laughed at their daughter’s reply. They thought (hell, I thought) she wasn’t feeling well and needed something. Ventilation perhaps, as the aircon wasn’t helping.
“Sige, Computer kaagad tayo. Gusto mo bang makita friendster mo?”
“Games…” was what she said.
“Sige anak, games tayo pagdating na pagdating natin sa bahay.
Yup. The kid misses her playmate.
Girls once used to do that outside their houses, amidst the bluster of neighborhood street.
It's like the inbetween in travelling, like palaman on where you came from, and where you are going.
Well, minus the traffic noise of course.
And like all things magical, it's hard to catch it, especially if you tend to sleep between twelve and two am.
It occurred to me that some people probably capped off their Holyweek by hiring a callgirl at Quezon Ave, or a Bakal Boy along Quezon Circle.
The first time I rode a taxi as a commuter was in 1999, when I had to go somewhere with a girlfriend who had trouble with Quezon City’s pollution. It was a moment of empowerment for me then, a mode of transportation previously only rode with adults. I was showing off to all the people around us at Philcoa, that I, at the age of 21, was a man now. I can now commute on a vehicle of convenience. I still couldn’t afford it, but still.
On that same year, occurred the second instance of me riding a taxi. I was, for old time’s sake, to fetch, and bring a former girlfriend to our college graduation. She wore a pretty dress when I arrived. She told me a story inside the taxi, of her persuading an activist batchmate of ours to join the ceremonies. “You deserve it.” She said to Biboy, regardless of your issues of proper education we did not receive (could’ve been better, always). He agreed, so he was there, and she was proud of that. She also confided in me then of her hopes to be noticed by a batchmate of ours that night. She wanted to move on from me, and I bid her luck on that matter. It was the least that I could do, as I bid farewell, and waited a bit on a corner to see the sights before leaving.
See, I dropped my thesis then, and even though I wanted to believe that it was our graduation night, I wasn’t part of it.
My God, has it been THAT long?
Okay, okay. Things happened. Writing this, I get this certain sense of Dejavu. I was defending myself, writing on a stark white template that I didn’t create this blog just because of the blog fad. That I actually thought and planned hard for it, sweating every entry to get the most of my life’s commuting.
So here I am doing it.
A baby of mine long neglected. Let’s start with some small stuff shall we?
-I rode the red tricycle going back to the apartment yesterday after a trip to Shaw MRT station for some DVDs. The driver was young, late teens probably. I told him my place, and hopped inside. I noticed that there was no glass panel in the front window. I quickly brushed the kid off as a slow driver, as he dutifully waited the tricycle in front of us to make his turn and speed away when he could’ve actually made his own turn now that he already had me as a passenger.
After finally making his turn though, he suddenly pumps up the accelerator, making the motor roar like crazy and cutting the tricycle that was in front of him in the line, narrowly dashing between it and the tambays in the other side. Quickly reclaiming the stereotype of youth’s rashness, I wanted to confirm from him that a passenger has already flown out of the front window after an instance of him breaking, reason why there was no glass panel in his tricycle.Jordan
If you ever do decide to have a relationship with a korean, you must be aware that there is a possibility of a former loved one, a boss, or the above mentioned people waiting in the wings to cheer her up and give her second thoughts whenever you encounter a rough spot in your relationship.
If this facts trouble you, if ever they are too much to bear, don't worry. chances are that there will be a girl who will suddenly appear in your life to comfort you in those moments of trouble and confusion.
These are all based on reliable sources people. Just watch all those Korean Telenovellas, you'll see what I mean.
I buy stored tickets riding the MRT. I tend to be smart enough not to fall in line every time I ride it. But on that particular day when I was at the MRT Kamuning station, I realized it wasn’t with me. A moment of clarity made me remember it was, well, at my room, somewhere.
The good thing with the Kamuning station is that it’s one of the least populated stations, so there was no long line as punishment for my mistake.
That is when I got to meet Erap.
You can’t mistake it. Same mug, same hairdo, same sneering smile… wait a moment, same job description? The one trip only MRT card I was holding was the one with Erap when he was still “His Excellency, President Joseph Ejercito Estrada.”
I thought it funny, God’s version of a joke considering that we want GMA to step down after finding evidence of her cheating her way to the presidency. Yup, finding the face of the former president who was disposed off suddenly appearing again in these times sure was sago to the Zagu shake.
A week later, at Makati Cinema Square, Jo and I heard this foreign couple talking about the card the guy had in his possession. I looked closely and it was a five hundred peso stored MRT. Yes, Erap’s mug was there too. I felt a sense of communality and approached him out of the blue, asking if I could see the card closely because like him, I too once had Erap on an MRT card. We talked a bit more then parted ways as strangers again after.
By last week I saw Erap cards everywhere. I didn’t feel special anymore. All of a sudden, it wasn’t God having a sense of humor, but some unknown distabilizer who had a subversive streak up on his/her veins.
GMA finally took notice of this small irony happening along the EDSA highway by the end of last week. She ordered all Erap cards taken out. Confusion and panic ensued as Jo witnessed it riding the MRT last Friday.
Of course, the most obvious reasons why they were being used, one I didn’t mention first hand because it was boring, is that there is a shortage of MRT cards in circulation.
Glad the former president could help.
At first she took out a pink handkerchief and daubed her face a bit off some EDSA grime. Then she put the hanky on her lap and started unraveling its fold. Lo and behold, her money was wrapped in her handkerchief.
The paper bills were neatly folded, and the coins were like ROTC cadets all in order. She paid a ten peso coin to the driver’s assistant and upon receiving, Lola insisted that they just give her two pesos, rather than the two pesos and fifty centavo change. “Ayaw ko ng mga bentsinko. Sa inyo na yan.” She said. “Okay lang sa amin yun Lola!” replied the driver’s assistant. Upon receiving the two peso change, she laid it along with her other pisos, beside the five peso and ten peso coins. She didn’t have any bentsinkos in her hanky. She neatly folded back her hanky and laid it gingerly in her lap.
Later she lifted her right thigh all of a sudden and crossed her legs. Her right foot was dangling, and sticking out invading the private zone of the person in front of her. She left her right sandal on the floor too. Sweet.
She had to arrange the stuff inside to accomodate the egg so I see her credit card bloated wallet shifed a little bit to the left, her cologne a bit to the middle, and god knows what else inside that the periphery of my eyes couldn't see.
I hope its hard boiled.
Basically you commute if you don’t have a car, or any private utility vehicle.
It was pointed out to me by a visiting Fullbright scholar that our use of the word “commuting” is different compared to how Americans do. Even the Canadians.
Commuting for them is whatever means you use to get to your destination. May it be a car or the subway train, may it be riding the taxi or your SUV. Whether you own the vehicle or not, you commute.
I wonder how the difference between commuting and owning a private vehicle came to be. Did the well-off people try to distance themselves with the rest by saying, “No, we don’t commute. We have ride a car.”
In America and Canada, hell, perhaps in other places too, everybody commutes. From the rich to the poor, to the old school to the new school, to the bling blings to the fare fee’d peeps. Everybody commutes.
Now that is a nice thought.
Seriously, it was an old woman with brown colored hair, fashioned in a 60’s majestic bob. She was wearing a fancy dress and red high heeled shoes to boot. She was with a mid 30s woman who seems to be her daughter. Either that or they just both go to the same hair salon, as her hair also had that brown tinge.
They were trying to find a place to eat, and were going to the direction of this steak house place were there was but only a multitude of people waiting in line. Apparently they wanted to eat there so off they go to the other side, totally avoiding the line and demanding an order to the service crew. This went on for a few minutes until somebody told them that if they wanted to order, well, see that line? That long line of people just beside them? They just have to join them and wait for your turn.
They seemed surprised by this. Which really was no surprise to me as the old woman basically was flaunting the look of the old rich. They were like fish out of water, so used to getting their way, and having a hard time when they have to follow the rules with the rest. I know its stereotypical (“yes, very stereotypical”) but hey, there they were in front of all the people to see.
Man, the word “stereotypical” reminds me of this After Image song. No pun intended, but I think it’s quite apt to the subject. It’s titled “Next in line” and it goes something like this (take it away bebeh!):
“So I sing this song to all of my age, for these are the questions we got to raise, for in this cycle that we call life, we are the ones who are next in line. We are next in line. Uh-ho, who-oh, we are next in line.”
Who am I kidding. The pun was intended.
I got to stop myself from singing the chorus.
I also told Jo that it just may be her way of making herself feel good with her age, dressing up like that.
And It also intrigued me why there were a lot of people lining up in that steak house place, so while waiting for our order, I went near and took a peek.
Their stakes were nothing fancy, the same size you’d see at any carinderia. But what was pulling all the people to that store dawned on me when I heard some sizzling sounds.
They served sizzling plates. And for how many years, for some reason I just could not comprehend; Filipinos are into sizzling plate meals when in the malls.
I was probably one of the few people who enjoyed The Matrix Reloaded and Revolutions, and one thing I noticed when it was shown was that it carried a PG13 rating, a far cry from the R rating it had in America.
I got to watch Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith weeks ago, and one of the news articles I got to read about it highlighted the fact that it was a PG13 movie, the second only after Return of the Jedi in the series to carry that rating (or was it The Empire Strikes Back?)
Lo and behold, kids were running around the movie house. And the MTRCB rating sign outside says it's a Rated GP film.
Yeah, I mean, it’s only a movie where the hero turns to the Dark side, massacres hundreds of his fellow Jedis, is told at by his master and getting disfigured in the process, thus wearing this all black suit complete with cape and mask, and gets to breath in and out so loud, you're like a living respirator. did I mention he has this death grip he uses on anyone he doesn't like?
Yep. Darth Vader is a good endorser of chocolate, ice cream, burgers and whatever merchandise you can think of that is geared for children.
Jordan 053105 21:48 mn
-a couple was lazily walking in front of us at the mall. The long sleeved, executive type of guy’s arm was around the casual tee wearing woman’s shoulder. They were so sweet, their heads were leaning at each other.
But they were also slow, so we overtook them.
Looking back, I noticed that the woman had a week old stubble in his chin, and realized she was a he.
Aw, still a sweet couple for me.
Trench coats are cool. But I don't wear them.
Infact, I laugh at people who I see wearing it here in the Philippines . Sorry, I just can't help it. I believe these people wearing these trench coats also think they are cool the same way I do.
but I don't wear them.
It's hot here man. period. and Trenchcoats, the real deal ones, are hot as hell.
I was walking along Tomas Morato after my carinderia lunch kanina when I saw this dude from far away, wearing a black trench coat, over a white tee and blue jeans.
Then he pulled out this black ski mask.
Then black shades.
I was thinking, "Shit, I'm about to witness a restaurant robbery."
Then the dude wore a red helmet. Rode on a motorcycle, and then sped away. Turns out he was a delivery driver for Dimsum and Dumplings.
But what the hell, a black trench coat in this freaking summer weather?
Actually, one of them didn’t get to finish his course. Count to think of it, I haven’t graduated yet myself, haha.
Walking along University Ave., I passed by a man wearing a Coney Island tee with a stars and stripes motif. He kept on adjusting his cap, and was walking all over the place. I thought it was too early to forget your troubles, but to each his own right? Passing by the Faculty Center, there was a group of girls scattered around, some loitering, and some waiting for a jeepney ride. They were loud and boisterous, I was sure they weren’t UP students at all. Anyways, as I was crossing into the front of AS hall, one girl in the middle of the group all of a sudden started screaming and was trying to rip off her blouse. She was looking at her girlfriends, pleading for help. It seems that one of the trees sheltering them delivered an insect straight right into her cleavage. The low cut front of her blouse was really helpful in giving the insect easy access to a comfortable landing. I walked straight on not wanting to see the end of the prepubescent situation.
It’s the kind of attire enough to cover skin only when you’re standing very still.
So amidst these split second skin peeks, I noticed she had a bikini line. It was high, the kind I associate with t-backs. Cool, the girl was cool. Until it dawned to me that her bikini line was dark, rather than the usual white. Like it was a negative exposure of your usual tan. So how did she do it? Was she the opposite when it comes to wearing bikinis? Is she conservative, covering most of her body that is usually exposed with that kind of attire?
Nah, not conservative considering what was covered is now exposed. Oh dear.
While on the crowded MRT naman going toShang, a young dude had that radio sounding voice of “Enemy sighted” in Counterstrike as his text message sound alert. I was tempted to ask him: “Pre’, ano kaba, Counter o Terrorist?”
At the MRT ride before that naman papuntang Tulay, there was this South American, burly built, and mestiso looking Foreigner wearing a coffee colored polo barong. He was talking to a middle aged woman who looked like his missionary companion. He caught my attention when I heard this foreign sounding voice whose sentences were peppered with the word “dollars.” Yeah, for some reason the word “dollars” kept popping up, and it definitely made a lot of people turn their heads and see where it was coming from. I for one thought it was a PA advertisement of some pyramid scheme. I was even waiting for that “but wait! There’s more!” portion. He was unique since besides the attire I’ve earlier mentioned, he was wearing a baseball cap with a drag race fire motif along with this Flag of what probably was his country. Hindi siya familiar, pero it also had the same color scheme of the cap, black and red.
So the MRT was this guy’s stage, and the woman his attentive audience. Meron naman dalawang babae at isang lalake na nagkukumpitensiya sa kaniya sa kwentuhan. When we arrived at the EDSA-Shaw station, the woman was fixing her bag and was preparing to get off. He was telling her to take care and saying thanks for the company. She was busy putting something in her handbag, and I noticed that the foreigner’s hands were also trying to put something in it which she was trying to stop. An awkward scene of two pairs of hands struggling inside a handicraft hand bag. In the end he prevailed, dropping what seems to be a roll of money inside. He punctuated this act with a last thank you, and with that, she stood up. To my surprise, she bid farewell to this group seated across them.. It turns out they were all together, and the other group bid her farewell too. I was waiting for this other group to fill the void the woman left vacant with regards to conversation. But no. The foreigner just sat there, mum. Occasionally looking at the group who kept on talking, not inviting the foreigner to what they were talking about.
So what kind of girls were populating Cubao Before?
Masa beauties. (Hah, you thought I’d say Jologs right? Sub genre lang sila no.)
Shouldn’t they be territorial about the place?
Going home, we got a Fairview jeep that passed by Kalayaan Ave., we got off ‘round corner Mayaman and started walking. Paading by ________at., we were surprised to see two guys standing under under the shadows. Geez, Bakal boys! Why were they changing turfs? Was Housing around Quezon Circle already getting hot? So is standing beside the office of Migrante, a progressive group taking care of OFWs a good idea for their likes? Why not the other block where there’s a religious born again group?
It gave me ideas you know. Maybe when I ain’t doing anything ‘round midnight, I’d just step out and stand there waiting for extra money. I have to look for a dark spot though. So that they can see me.
Oh, and one thing about A Very Long Engagement is that it’s a very long movie.
And it won’t be right to compare it to Amelie, two different sides of a coin, that’s what the two are.
-A tall and fit basketball player came inside Sbarros to eat what it seems to be an early dinner. He was accompanied by her big, overweight wife and baby in a stroller.
I was thinking, the guy was fit because of his work but his wife was overweight ALSO because of his work.
-A kid wearing a long sleeved all silver cowboy suit was dancing at a tropical beach themed stage, complete with coconut trees, sand and blue cool water.
-Powerbooks is trying to be at par with Fully Booked with regards to book selection diversity. They now even have that book of pornstar potraits, but accesible only if you ask the person manning the cashier nicely.
(I had second thoughts on posting this when I realized I was writing the trees in the vein of sinister entities when in fact, they're just minding their own business, swaying to the winds breeze. Oh well, at least I got that out.)
And I rarely watch movies with others. I have this notion that the darkness has a purpose when watching a film: anonymity. A secret, intimate relationship with you and the silver screen, which only you and her alone have any knowledge about. It defeats the purpose of anonymity when you come in with someone. It’s like bringing along your friend when you’re off to see your mistress.
Of course, that all changed when I discovered girls. And the analogy has now escaped me. Where was I? Oh, yes. Movies. Listing them.
It was overwhelming! I practically filled up two sheets of yellow paper, back to back. I felt guilty with the black and white (okay, yellow) listing of where I've spent a sizable chunk of my life.
I haven't done it ever since. But thinking about it, It was one of those sporadic moments of me being anal.
I wonder if I'd also be guilty if I track the time I spend peeing every year ("What!? I've spent an estimated week of my life peeing in 2004? Why, I could've done more productive things with that one week of peeing, like, watching movies, and finally playing Final Fantasy VII!")
So where's the travelling part in this entry?
Count to think of it, he even looked more like the kids grandfather.
Me: Dream on?
Jo: Let the Love Begin?
Me: Let the Love End?
Of course we were just joking about having those movies as considerations to watch. Hell, when we watched A Very Long Engagement last month, our movie trailer viewing was interrupted by those two’s trailers.
The title of this entry by the way is a title of one of their songs too. One that I would forever associate with a scantily clad woman all of a sudden doing a split in a makeshift stage with a thudding sound that reveals the cheapness of the place.
If Sesame Street was a telenovella, the ending remarks would be “this program is brought to you by the number 3, the triangle, and by the sickness called amnesia.”
Also on Unang Hirit, they had the music group Father and Son as guests. They were promoting their new album Mami-miss kita. They’ve apparently undergone major lineup changes since they were once known as “Father and Sons.” I told Jo they were the band who made a living out of the word “miss.” Still are, considering the name of their new album. How distinct is it from their first hit “miss na miss kita” ?
There sure are a lot of procrastinating crazies out there. Ain’t a safe place for anyone anymore.
Anyways, she's the first one to link me up to her blog site, thus I'm one click closer to blogger civilization.
And she told me it's been months since I've updated. It's been a year actually if you'll take advantage of the new year disparity round january ("We haven't seen each other in a year! When was it? Dec 31?")
actually I've been typing out entries in my PC.
so here is the start of the deluge...
So who was he with? One can only guess to the limits of assumption and one’s personal life. Jo hoped he was with the mom as he was near her age rather than the daughter.
He went on rambling things about London, his chest hair and about the wine again. Red wine in particular.
Mabenta siya. Better go find the fourth one then so they’ll be three again.
I accompanied my girlfriend in getting some groceries in Rustan’s Supermarket at Katipunan. Only a few people were there. She was complaining how vegetables’ prices have gone high, particularly the leafy ones. Thus, no vegetable salad for lunch. They didn’t even have calamansi. But they had a loaf of bread on the greeting cards section. Probably a new novel way of greeting in the line of “if somebody throws rocks at you, throw them bread” messages.
It was January two and I noticed Christmas as well as New Year’s Day commodities still remaining unsold. A pile of big cans of Dole fruit salad on the corner, stripped candy canes still hang in a stand, Keso De Bolas still occupy space in the dairy section, and sweetened hams still available in abundance in the cold cuts area.
Finished with the groceries,were walking along Dagohoy and we see loafs of bread still displayed in front of a house. That imagery, loafs of bread piled in stacks, the kind that are impromptu made for the yuletide season to make a quick buck and are much widely known as “tasty,” triggered memories I’ve associated with the holiday season, nagging me to write this entry.
I was in tagig during new years day. While riding a jeep to bicutan with Reynaldo to visit Manley, we passed by buko seller stalls, closed for the day, no coconuts to be seen, what they had instead were the husks of those they’ve sold for Media Noche. They were piled up so high, the morbid in me couldn’t help comparing it to the piles of skulls from Cambodia’s Killing Fields massacres.
We cooked grilled tilapia for lunch by the way. They didn’t have any calamansi at Rustan’s so I head out to the nearest sari-sari store. They had calamansi for one peso a pop. A small pop mind you. But it was something we needed so I just didn’t made them see me wince as I handed the bayad.
Tumataas na talaga ang lahat ng bilihin. Pero like with everything, we still buy them “kasi kaylangan eh.”
In these times of low cut jeans and skirts, I wish for a day that I won’t unintentionally get to see women’s underwear. It is a privilege given wantonly, an opportunity spoon fed. Where have all the excitements gone?
I’d rather meet a woman and think “God, I wish I could see her underwear” rather than “Darn, I can see her undies. There goes one conversation piece I can’t use.”
-At the 2nd floor DVD corner was a stall situated at the far right side of the hubbub area. They had no customers. A thin old muslim lady, probably the mom of the owner would go out of the stall and sit on a high stool at a corner, sadly looking at all customers that were not buying from them.
-A man in his late 20’s was standing in front, eating at one of the food stalls just like everybody else. But nobody knew that he was putting shwarma sauce in his special siopao meal. He ate two siopaos, getting away two times eating it with shwarma sauce. Later, he met up with a friend and pretended he still hasn’t eaten lunch. The two of them ate shwarma at the other corner.
I gave here the tap on the shoulder, the stern look, and the finger pointing at the back.
She was a tough one mind you. Face didn’t budge even with the weight of her felony to society being pointed out.
It’s not that people in Metro Manila don’t know how to fall in line, they do. It’s just that the urge of getting away with things‑if they can-is stronger most of the time.
On board, there was this hyperactive kid who sang in a sing song way, maroon 5’s This love, which I liked, considering how it has been played to death at my office. The kid breathed new life to the song, reminding me it was a good one. Natch.
I got down along the corner of Marcos ave. and Ligaya; where the 7-11 is the last business venture surviving there. Jeepneys going to Rosario and Pasig can be found there, I was only getting down on Mabini Street, so any jeep was fine. (Have you ever wondered how many streets are named Mabini, Bambang, and Rizal?) It just so happened one Pasig palengke jeep was still waiting for passengers in front of me. Got a look inside and it was almost full, but the guy who was sitting beside the last seat at the left side suddenly decided to move and sit down farther inside the right side of the jeep. I took the opportunity and dove in.
Seated inside, I scanned the people around me. SOP to ween out possible hold-up situations. It was cool. But while scooping out their faces I noticed a lot of them were covering their noses. And right in _______, the smell hit me. Amoy tae. So I was sniffing, figuring where it could possibly be coming from. Sa labas? A baby with a full tank diaper? Amoy tae ng tao ha. Not just any animal shit. And then it hit me, it was strong, and another SOP I had that I didn’t get to do was nagging at the back of my head: double check any vacant seat left on a crowded bus or jeep. Chances are, there’s a reason why it’s left unoccupied. Bubble gum at the seat, vomit from a drunk dude, wet because of the rain…
I didn’t get to scope the person to my right, the one seated at the last seat as that action was not too subtle. I then heard laughter, a nervous giggle coming form that direction, so I looked. Lo and behold, the person beside me was a big fat unkempt mama, smiling a toothless grin, and holding up her right hand, which was smeared full with human shit. The source of the foul smell everyone was covering his or her face at; and the reason why the dude originally seated beside her changed seats.
I followed suit.
Baliw yung babae. She was holding a small container with her other hand. It was the kind used by samalamig vendors. Pang-gulaman, buko juice or pineapple juice. Anyways, she brandished her hand smeared with shit frosting. I was at the far corner so I had the privilege of safe observation when the passengers near her evaded her to the best of their abilities considering the intimacy of the jeep. They were writhing away, men and women alike as she teasingly waved her hand close to them. Talk about invasion of personal space huh? The rest were pleading the driver to, uh, drive him away. And the driver was telling the rest of the passengers to shoo her out.
If you think about it, all of then could’ve gotten down. But nobody did. Aba, sayang ang pamasahe no.
Then for some reason, crazed mama decided to get off the jeep. Everybody had their own version of pleading to the driver to drive away. Humarurot naraw bago sumakay uli. So he did.
Everyone sighed a sigh of relief. The spot where crazed mama sat still remained vacant, avoided by everyone like the plague. Some of the passengers were spitting outside, some were on the verge of vomit as the memory of the smell is sometimes stronger than the actual whiff itself.
But that wasn’t the end of the story. Along the way, there was a traffic congestion and the passengers in my jeep saw crazed mama riding on another one! The poor passengers in the jeep numbered only a few, but crazy mama was still seated at the end brandishing her hand and her laughter audible to us. Word was spreading that she may get down while the jeeps were on a halt and again ride our jeep. The women were telling the men that if she ever did get back, they should punch and kick her out. Everyone would breath a sigh of relief when the jeep would move, and dread with anticipation when it stopped.
They would peek so obviously that I would never blame crazed mama coming back with the attention they were giving her. I mean, she’s only brandishing her hand covered in shit right?
Traffic loosened up after we passed by Santolan. Some passengers got down and the _______(communal) memory of crazed mama terrorizing us all desipitated. The rest of us that were still there could only break a smile when a teenage couple, dressed to kill for a gimmick got in and sat down where crazed mama sat. I was tempted to tell them “alam mo may nakaupo diyang babaeng baliw kanina, yung kanang kamay niya puno ng tae.” But I didn’t.
Mabini street passed by, I got down and walked to my friends house. I waited till we finished eating before telling the story of crazy mama.
I think that if the MMDA existed along time ago, "Why did the chicken cross the road?" jokes would be inexistent.
And is Bayani Fernando denying these roads' and intersections' sense of existance in this world? What meaning are their lives if they exist not for their purpose?
Old people have the right to fart out loud in public places. They don’t need any excuses, nor feel guilty about it at all.
An old man in decent business clothes was sitting right across me. All of a sudden, he lifts his right butt cheek a bit and nonchalantly releases a fart so loud and full I hear it above the Jeepney’s engine roar. It was a sound so vivid, a man with a wild imagination would puke on the spot hearing it.
After that, he carefully laid his right butt cheek back on the seat and continued on with a straight face through the remainder of the ride.
I got down my stop at Aurora, catched my best friend bus, the red one, and I still found something wrong with the incident.
It only dawned to me what it was while aboard a Megamall-Pasig FX.
Inangat niya yung kanang pisngi ng puwet niya para hindi makulong yung utot niya.
It was once considered luxurious to own a pager.
Back then, you'd be throwing away money if you bought bottled mineral water.
Eating at fast foods were once considered special day occasions.
For me, calling on your cellphone for a long time is a luxury today.
I'll just be waiting for the time when that is not the case, and I'll sound like an old foggy reminiscing about it.
EDSA Central Internet Cafe
I'll try my best not to let this blog be just about my life.
Because if this blog was just about my life, I'd only be talking about Tiff files, Jpeg quality optimizing, Postcript distilling and what was my lunch at the carinderiera. I do have a job you know.
Now, travelling. Travelling is what I do a lot aside from work. Now, that is reasonable character development, don't you think?
He was a perfect case to discuss where the line between contradictons, and irony should be drawn in this information flooded times we have now.
A mini shoveling tractor was leasurely chugging along J.P. Rizal last night. with the speed it was going along a public road, it attracted attention as it gave off an unintentional arrogance of an aristocrat, who could afford doing things in a slow pace when everybody else had to go around fast in their chores.
I say unintentional as a mini tractor, one that spends its whole existence in close intimacy with dirt, is one that’s least associated with aristocracy.
The bomb was that the driver of the said tractor, was texting while driving! Everybody was hooting and giving him amused looks. A van sped pass by and jeeredloudly at him. His head was bent down, texting away, oblivious to everyone, even to his driving.