Jona Needs a Steamer

This actually happened today. I am not making any of this up.

To: S.
Cc: T.
From: Jona
Re: Steamer

I need to buy one. You need to come with me. Where should I get one.


To: Jona
Cc: T.
From: S.
Re:Re: Steamer

Steamer? As in, "Goodbye and Goodluck, Jona!"?


Exerpt from transcript of telephone conversation between S. and Jona:

J: Your e-mail. I don't get it.
S: What's not to get? Why do you need a streamer?
J: A what?
S: You know, a "Goodbye and Goodluck, Jona!" streamer.


To: Jona
Cc: S.
From: T.
Re:Re:Re: Steamer

You can find them at TrueValue. And S., you are forgiven. At first I thought she meant those things you use to make dumplings.

The Movers

Are coming by tomorrow. To take a look at my stuff so that they can make a quotation for relocation expenses.

I intend to show them the following articles and personal effects:

1.5 balikbayan box of clothes, shoes and other forms of apparel
1 crate of wine (12 bottles)
8-10 framed paintings and drawings
1 balikbayan box of books (mostly fiction – I’m leaving yesterday and law books behind)
1 DVD player

I intend to describe to them the following articles:

1 clothing steamer (yet to be purchased)
1 bicycle (yet to be purchased)

I'm really excited about the move. I get fixated over the walks I will take, the temples I will visit, the dimsum I will devour.

Five more weeks and I'm outta here.

The ABC's of Love

Always Be Careful.
Don't Ever Forget.
Go Home Immediately.
Just Keep Loving Me.
No Other Person Quite Right Shall Treat U Very Well.
Xee You Zoon.

--Anonymous

Nessun Dorma

I was at the opera last night. Selected Puccini arias. Puccini's Greatest Hits, you could say.

The only reason I went was to hear Nessun Dorma, the tenor aria from the third act of Turandot, Puccini's opera about a princess who makes her suitors answer three riddles. If they answer all three correctly, they win her. If they err, they lose their heads. Talk about psycho bitch.

But anyway, back to Nessun Dorma.

The first time I heard the piece was on a hot summer day in Manhattan. I was wearing my outfit of choice: a worn CU shirt, ratty shorts, and old but really expensive driving shoes (I didn't want people to think I was super kawawa). I was lying on the grass, well, on a blanket I'd laid out and was drinking wine from a plastic cup while reading a book. My bicycle was resting against a nearby tree. I remember I was worried about spilling the wine on myself. I was preoccupied by the book I was reading, but was equally (if not more) immersed in the shiraz. A moist leaf was stuck on my leg.

In the summertime, live (and did I mention free?) music plays in the park almost everyday. All you had to do was get a calendar of activities and you could just camp out and listen with a book and a bottle of wine you brought from home. For the larger events they even sold beer. Think about it: beer and Verdi. Now that's a good time.

I don't recall who actually performed that day, but what I do remember was that I was moved by the music. There are some moments in your life that have a tremendous effect on you. Moments you don't expect. They just happen. Nessun Dorma, summer of 2003.

No, I didn't become an opera buff afterwards. I became a hardcore Beniamino Gigli fan for a little while, but that's about it. But the memory of that day in the park. That stayed.

Last night's performance was not remarkable, but it did bring back vivid memories of a summer day a couple of years ago. The warm sunlight, the lightheadedness, the heartbreaking beautiful music.

OWWA Bung-ga

Last night I had dinner with a bunch of former officemates at National Sports Grill. Over greasy burgers and cold beers we discussed life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. You know, all the things that happen once you’ve left The Perm.

By now most of them had heard about my new job in Hong Kong. We started talking about the move (what kind of visa I needed for China’s Special Administrative Region) when from the far end of the table, one of my favorite cohorts remarked, “Yeah and wait till you have to line up at the POEA all day.”

Now I thought this was the funniest punch line in the whole world! Timing was perfect, delivery impeccable (poker face all the way). I laughed so hard I thought I’d choke on a French fry. As I was drying the tears of happiness from my eyes I noticed something rather strange: no one else was laughing.

Oh. My. God. I really have to line up at the POEA.

Immediately I grew cold as mental images of me standing in an endless queue in a hot, crowded, decrepit government office raced through my brain. I pictured myself holding a clear plastic envelope and a Panda ball pen, walking around the POEA building looking lost while fixers tried to entice me with employment in Dubai. I imagined myself drowning in a sea of documentary requirements, missing my plane to Hong Kong, and a chance at a fabulous lifestyle.

Ok, so maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

Apparently, when you have a work visa from another country stamped on your passport, Philippine immigration at the airport won’t let you board a plane unless you have an Overseas Employment Certificate from the OWWA, the Overseas Workers Welfare Association.

You see, the Philippine Government has to make sure I’m not leaving to be sold to slavery by a fly by night employer based in Riyadh. So I need to pay them P7,000, get a medical exam from an “accredited” medical clinic and attend a half day orientation on how to settle into a foreign country and avoid abuse from your employer.

Now that’s what I call idiotic public policy in action.

Going Up

I was in the elevator of my former office building today. When the lift stopped at the 8th floor, I overheard the lady behind me say, "Eto na ba ang 14th floor?"

Recognizing she had the wrong floor she replied, "Ay, 10th pa lang."

I think this lady needs professional help (the first grade home room teacher type of help).

We Meet Again

The first time I met David Sedaris was in New York, at Cooper Union. It was at a reading to promote his collection of short stories, "Children Playing Before the Statue of Hercules." I was in New York to take my oath for admission to the NY bar. I was there for 7 days. The Sedaris reading was on my first night. I didn't have a ticket, I just took the train downtown and said I'd wing it. If I got in, great. If I didn't, I could walk around the City and reminisce about the greatest year of my life. Win-win.

As it turned out, I did get in. Went from person to person asking for an extra ticket and on the fourth guy, I was handed one with a smile. (This technique by the way, is also how I got into the Dave Matthews Band concert at the Park.) I thanked my benefactor profusely; he waved me off.

God I love New York.

A number of authors came to read their work, including Joyce Carol Oates, Lorrie Moore, Akhil Sharma and Sarah Vowell. I felt I had died and gone to heaven.

At the book signing afterwards, I told Mr. Sedaris that he had a strong following in the Philippines. He said he was very happy to hear it. On my book he wrote, "The Philipines? Who knew?"

This afternoon I met him again at a reading sponsored by Power Books at the Shangri-la Edsa mall. There was a mid-sized crowd, about 50 or so people waiting in line to see him. When I handed him my books I said, "See, I told you you had a following in the Philippines."

His eyes lit up and said, "Oh, it's you!"

Well, that's what I had wished he said. Instead he warmly replied, "Have we met before?" I told him I was at the Cooper Union reading. We went on chatting about New York. He asked me what I was doing there. I said something about the bar. He told me horror stories about the French IRS going after him and he the lawyer he had to hire.

Walking back to the car I looked at the inscriptions he made. One read, "Nice to see you again." The other, "I wish you were my lawyer."

I felt I had died and gone to heaven.

Making Turns

Earlier this evening I was making a tight left turn from Shaw to Nueve de Pebrero. There were two lanes turning left and I was in the inner lane. As I made the turn I had to be mindful of the stationary cars to my left who were waiting to cross Shaw from Nueve de Pebrero and be conscious of the cars to my right who were making the turn with me.

So imagine me negotiating the turn when this idiot sedan (I say that scoffingly since I drive an SUV) tried to creep in on my left, making a sandwhich out of me and the cars making turns on my right.

Needless to say I did not make the sucker pass. As I completed the turn I said outloud to myself: "The only thing I hate more than turning is parking."

I made this statement sit for a while and then I thought, "Hmmm.... that's not entirely accurate. I hate backing up too." (Yes, I think in complete sentences.) It was at this time I added inclines to my list of least favorite driving maneuvers.

Let's see now. I have turns, parking, going in reverse and inclines.

Apparently, the only kind of driving I like is the straight and flat kind.

The Socially Inept Strike Again

I don't like wakes. Not for the obvious reason (i.e. dead person in the room). I don't like wakes because I don't do very well at them.

I get awkward; I don't know what to say so I end up being uncharacteristically quiet. When I do say something though, I say the stupidest, most inappropriate thing.

To illustrate: I was at a wake of a friend's mom a few years ago. January 2004 to be exact. I remember because I'd just gotten my new car. Was so proud of it. Could talk about nothing else at that time. So I walk in the gate of my friend's house (they're old school: wake held at home) and tables and chairs have been set up along the concrete driveway. I see my friends seated at the back.

As I'm making my way to the end of the driveway, one of them calls out to me: "O? Dala mo ba ang bago mong kotse?"

I reply, "Siempre. It's right out front."

Now the gate was open and you could see some of the cars parked on the street. So my friend asks, "Alin dyan?"

I point to my shiny new baby and answer with the accurate although inappropriate:

"Ayun, o. Yung kabaong gold na Escape."

I was mortified. Did I just say "kabaong gold" at a wake? In front of so many people I don't know? Where my friend's mother's coffin was in fact tinted gold? Am I the biggest idiot in the world?

Don't answer that.

Tonight I was at a wake . Again, a close friend's mom. Again, I was at a loss on what to say. Do you really have to ask how the person passed? Because I don't really want to know. I go to wakes to let my friends know that I'm there for them during difficult times. I want to show support, a friendly face in a sea of relatives. But if it were completely up to me, I would never bring up the deceased's medical history.

So in true socially inept form, I started talking about my new job. I used to work at the the same firm with my friend whose mom passed, so there were plenty of lawyers at the chapel. We talked shop and would invariably get to discussing my new job. I ended up hogging every conversation I had tonight, talking about this new job of mine. It was like I was a radio DJ afraid of dead air (no pun intended, really). I just chatted everyone up. It was a complete disaster.

I think my social graces have hit a dead end. (Ok, now that one was intended.)

I Dream of Movie Pitches

Last night I dreamt of a great idea for a movie.

The film will be called May December May and will be a romantic comedy involving a young woman a (but not too young) and an older man. The first part of the movie we develop the characters and find the couple going through the usual ups and downs related to the situation of having a significant age gap between you and your significant other. Misunderstanding, nothing to talk about, etc.

Then one third into the movie we find our couple in a carnival or one of them gets a hold of magic dust yada yada yada and voila! the roles are switched and you have an older woman dating a younger man. Then they go through the same ups and downs, just that the roles are reversed.

Please don't ask me what happens next. I got up before the movie ended.

Orange and My Quest For Knowledge

Orange is at it again. It is unnerving.

So I drop my book (In Cold Blood), get on-line, and google "cat mating season".

This is what I learned:*

Do Cats Have a Breeding Season?

In most cases, yes! Unlike dogs, for whom estrus [a cycle during which the ovary is primed to produce an egg and the female is specifically receptive to mating] occurs approximately every six months, female cats go into heat several times during a single, prolonged breeding season. The breeding season is controlled by the number of hours of daylight (the same is true of horses). x x x It is interesting to note, however, that indoor cats may cycle throughout the year because electric lights give them about the same light/dark cycle throughout the four seasons.


Behavior Changes During the Estrous Cycle

Female cats exhibit dramatic changes in behavior while they are in estrus. x x x The cats will roll from side to side and meow or yowl much more than they typically do-a lot more!


How Long Does the Estrous Cycle Last?

One entire heat or estrous cycle, which consists of estrus and diestrus together, lasts roughly from 18 to 24 days. Estrus itself, the phase in which cats act a little crazy and are receptive to being mated, lasts approximately four to 10 days.


From my last count, today is Day 4 of Orange's Attempt to Drive Jona Mad. Looks like I may have another week to go.

Wish me luck people.


*Material reproduced from www.thedailycat.com. Underscoring mine.

Podium's Best Kept Secret

Everyone make a beeline to Yaku, the yakitori place at The Podium. Food is very good (and surprisingly not pricey) and the sake is a little sweet, a little dry -- just they way I like it.

Order the chicken skin and the asparamaki.

I think I'll throw one of my send offs here.

Walang Ilaw

This morning I woke up to a house with a lot of yelling going on. My mother was on the phone with Trixxie, the unfortunate call center agent who picked up my irate mother’s customer service call.

Apparently during last night’s typhoon, we had a short that blew the Meralco connection to our house, leaving our home the only one without electricity in the entire island of Luzon. Like the lonely black bulb in a beautifully lit Christmas tree.

Trixxie was not doing a good job appeasing my mother. But then again I don’t think Mother Teresa could have done a better job. Inday (yes, I occasionally call my mother by her first name) was livid. No lights meant she’d have to cancel her weekly mah-jong game. God forbid.

Since I’ve been camping out at home, I ordinarily do not need electricity during daytime hours. I can just sit and read or jot down random thoughts in my journal. Oh the life of the unemployed. This morning was different though. A lot of yelling and very loud make-shift door bell installation discussions.

“CAN YOU HEAR THAT?”

“WHAT?”

“THE CHIMES!”

“WHAT?!”

“THE CHIMES! WE’RE PUTTING THEM ON A STRING TILL THE LIGHTS COME ON.”

I’m sure you get it. I just wanted to shut everything out with really loud music. But alas, walang ilaw.

So I planned my escape. I would take off and go to a mall and wander aimlessly. I would run fictional errands and have lunch with an imaginary friend -- anything to get out of my dysfunctional and non-electrified home.

Leaving the house was not going to be as easy as I thought though. My mother had assigned me “Home Emergency” duties which essentially involved answering the door and picking up the phone. Which is pretty simple in the abstract. But in reality, the phone is not near the gate. This forced me to find an equidistant spot (the couch) to hang out in and read. But the phone would ring then the wind would make the chimes go off (note to self: chimes not an effective door bell replacement) and I’d go scurrying in my jammies.

After the fourth call and the third gust of wind I heard someone banging at the gate. It was the Meralco man. Four hours late, but still a very welcome sight.

Thanks, Trixxie.

Pablo's Horny Cat

Pablo is our handy man. He does odd jobs around the house. He's a quiet man. And while we've lived in the same house for over 15 years, we have not exchanged more than 100 words to each other. This is because each time I see him and say hello, Pablo grunts back. That's how Pablo is. He's a grunter. He's also a skilled painter and carpenter and a lover of Ginebra Gin.

Pablo has three cats. One has orange hair and is called... you guessed it: Orange. Then there are these two white cats with black spots on them. Identities unknown. In fact, they could be the same cat. I'm not sure.

Orange is a horny sucker. She's been bawling 24/7 the last 3 days. If I were a tomcat I'd do her just to shut her up. Orange does not meow. She bays. Which leads me to think she is half mule half wolf.

The noise Orange makes is non-human (because really, it is). It's this low, guttural moan that gets louder and louder (which would make you think that she was getting some) and then transforms into a rather desperate howl. A cry for help, you could say.

And so tonight, like the last two nights, Orange is at it again. I cannot sleep, and the racket is distracting me from reading the subtitles of my second French movie for the day.

Idle Hands

I've just been informed that my vacation is to last at least 4 more weeks. Hong Kong immigration takes 4 weeks to process an application for a work permit and my new office called to say that they've just turned in my docs.

Now to those of you who are working for a living, this sounds like a dream. Four more weeks of no-stress living. But for someone who has been out of the workforce for 7 weeks (and 3 days) already... well, let me just say that the news did not make my heart leap.

Instead, it made my heart yell, "Ay PU#*&%^!!*&%!!!"

Ayoko na. I need to work. I need to get up early everyday, put on a suit, drive an hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic, drink bad coffee, get pestered by clients and bosses and colleagues, get hyperacidity, have a lousy lunch, drink more bad cofee, write a lot of useless e-mail, and of course, receive countless e-mail on penis enlargement and ejaculation control. Which reminds me, have I renewed my Cialis prescription?

But anyway.... I digress.

I need to get back to work.

It's not the money. Like childbirth, I prepared for this break and the expenses related to relocation. It's also not the boredome. I can blog and watch French movies all day (Look at Me is good.) It's the general sense of idleness; that I'm not doing anything constructive. That my mind is rotting in an alcholic soup.

Wait. Scratch that last one. I drank just as much when I was employed. Even more, I'd say.

Bottomline is that I just have to admit to myself that I enjoy working, keeping to a schedule, maintaining a routine. I need structure.

My goodness. I may have just discovered my inner dolt.

The Object of My Affection

Everyone, meet Phil.

Philip Xavier is my only sibling's only child. (Which if you think about it, makes my Christmas lists very short each year.)

Phil is a nice kid, can say Mama and car, and choo-choo. He says hi and waves goodbye. (He just can't get the order right. He is known to begin conversations with "Bye!")

When asked how old he is he says "One." The child is two. But let's not judge him. We've all misstated our age at one point in our lives. He's just starting early.

Asked to identify the mammoth on the cover of one of his books, he replied, "el-phant", causing his mother to go into hysterics at the thought that her child may be a genius. With great excitement she opens the book and points to a lion.

"What's this, Phil?"

"El-phant"

Pointing to a monkey he replies "el-phant".

Well, one out of three aint so bad.

But what makes Philip extraordinary is not his mental prowess (or the lack thereof). It's his looks. The boy is handsome. And in my family where brains are a dime a dozen (his mother graduated Summa Cum Laude), and people have at least 5 letters after their names (B.S., J.D., Ll.M.), a good looking boy is revered. A good looking boy is god.

Just look at him for chrissakes.

Remember The Book of Lists?

That collection of inane lists we all read when we were kids?

My Dad got me The Book of Lists #1, 2 and 3. I believe the last issue of the first series was published in 1983. After that, The Book of Lists fell into the same level of obscurity that its contents were known for.

I am glad to let everyone know (well, the 3 people who read this blog) that The New Book of Lists is now available (Canongate U.S., 2005). $9.75 in Amazon.

I hope it features updates of my favorite lists like "Top 10 Worst Places to Hitchhike" "14 Couples Whose Marriages Broke Up In Less Than a Month" and "Curious Accidents".

Non-vital Statistics

78,800 - my current top score in Pacman

23 - pages of a Citibank Private Banking application form I need to fill out

6 - cellphones I've owned since switching to Globe in 1998

3.42 - my over-all college GPA

14 - books I read last year

4.5 - the average number of drinks I consume during the course of an evening

5 - godchildren I have

4 - godchildren whose names I know

15 - minutes it takes me to get ready for work

53 - minutes it takes me to drive to work

2,487 - manhours I logged last year

3 - continents I've been on

1 - cars I've totalled

No Pets Allowed

Please don't get me wrong: it's not that I hate domestic animals. Sometimes they're cute and loyal and look eerily like their owners. I will never harm or mistreat them. In fact, I've been known to scratch the back of a dog's ears now and then. But I will never take a domestic animal into my home.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the simple truth is that I don't like pets. There, I said it out loud.

Growing up I had a few. A couple of gold fish. Two miniature lobsters (Rocky and Thermidore). I took care of them during the course of their natural lives. At the time of his demise, Rocky had grown to over six inches. Making him a regular sized prawn instead of a petite lobster.

But I never really took to them, not like the way my friends felt towards their pets. It was like I was given an unwanted Tamagochi for Christmas and I felt obligated to take care of the creature.

According to my friends my aversion towards pets is because I never really had an "interactive" one growing up. Like a cat or a dog. I say, "buti na lang". I can't see myself having a relationship with a being not in my species. Whose poop I need to clean up. Who cannot converse on the subtle differences among the house brews of Figaro, Starbucks and Seattle's Best (Figaro forever).

When I was a kid, I asked my mom why we never had pets like other people. She said it was because my father was allergic to animal hair. I accepted this explanation. Why wouldn't I? A few years after that though, I saw my Dad pet a dog. Turns out Daddy dearest isn't really allergic. He just doesn't like pets either.

It's amazing how the domestic animal lobby has made it almost a sin to say that you don't like pets. As if not liking them is something you should be ashamed of. Like a third arm. I guess we've been bombarded with too many "boy and his dog" movies that we should consider it natural for people to take a liking towards pets.

Someone should stand up for non-pet lovers. Someone brave enough to say, "No, we don't like pets. They make lots of noise. They smell bad and leave hair everywhere."

Now stop looking at me like that. I'm just allergic.

David and Puccini

Next week David Sedaris is coming to town and Puccini's "greatest hits" will be playing at the CCP. Who says there is no culture in Manila?

(Actually, I do. It's really awful here, but the weather is fabulous and SMB is the greatest beer in the world.)

A Dead Giveaway

I was about seventeen when I poured my mom a beer she was to enjoy over dinner. She has about 2-3 beers a year.

I poured it perfectly, effortlessly, tilting the glass just the right angle to avoid the foam. I poured all of the contents of the tinted bottle into the chilled tumbler in one smooth stroke. When it was over, the beer made a soft hiss. I handed it to her with a smile.

She remarked, "I see you've done this before."

Well, whaddaya know?

Contra Tiempo

After more than 7 weeks in bed (on account of sheer laziness) I decided to get off what has become a really large ass and start exercising. The plan was to play badminton with a trainer.

Yes, lethargic me plays badminton. So often when I was younger that I would whack the shuttlecock with club pros. Back in the early 90's when badminton was not popular, I was really into it. And the sessions with trainers were not for exercise. The hours spent with the pro were to improve my swing, not my figure. You don't need to exercise at 16.

15 years and 30 pounds later, I can still whack the ball pretty well, but not with the same precision I had nor with the same lightness of foot (you try running around a badminton court at 31).

It's funny how I stopped playing badminton completely around the time it got really popular in Manila. Maybe it was the subconscious snob in me, but I didn't want people to think I played badminton only because it was uso. That I was trying to be "in". I didn't want to explain myself, so I stopped playing.

Stupid, but true.

Now that the game's popularity is waning, I feel like I want to start playing again. Talk about spirito de contradiccion.

Food I Don't Eat

A long time ago I asked my Mom what was for lunch. She replied, "chicken bino-o" - chicken cooked in a broth with onions and carrots, a little soy sauce. I hate bino-o. I don't eat it.

I expressed my dislike to my mother quite simply. I said, "I don't eat bino-o."

Now my father, who was within earshot and constantly nagging me about proper English usage jumped in with, "You mean you don't like binoo. But you can eat it."

"No, I don't just dislike the stuff. I don't eat it." Poor Dad. The nuances of culinary preferences are obviously lost on him.

There is a big difference between not liking food and not eating food. I generally don't like chocolate. But if you put a moist flourless cake in front of me (preferably with some vanilla ice cream on the side), I will take a bite. Same with vegetables in general. I don't enjoy eating leaves, but if the vinagrette is good, then why not?

But there are certain kinds of food you despise. Food, even if free, you would pass on. By the way, the "free" test is the absolute litmus test on whether you eat a certain food or not. As a general rule, I will eat ANYTHING that is free. It doesn't even need to be edible. If it's free and does not move, odds are I will attempt to taste it.

Ampalaya, okra, beans of any kind except monggo. You can give me truckloads of this stuff and I wouldn't touch it with a hundred foot pole. I don't even know why people bother to grow these things, much less buy them.

In a perfect world there would be no okra (and mosquitoes).

Super Mario Brothers

Remember when everyone had a Family Computer (that red and white plastic contraption that came after Atari)?

Practically all Filipino households had one. Well, everyone but ours, that is. My mom considered all video games evil, so after our Atari conked out (or when we stopped playing with it -- I don't remember which came first) she refused to buy a Family Computer. Instead we purchased a brand new set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Woopeedoo.

While my classmates were learning all the secret moves to earn 1ups (that means extra lives to those losers not familiar with Family Computer talk), I was pouring over the EB volume containing the atlas. [A lot of good that did me. With the fall of the U.S.S.R. and all the other communist regimes, the world map of 1986 has changed radically.]

During sleep-overs or parties, the kids would play video games, and since I sucked (no practice, didn't know that you pressed A to jump and B to shoot -- or was it the other way around?) I wasn't part of the "cool kids". I could spot Slovakia on a map in under 3 seconds, but I couldn't get Mario to jump on that cloud to save my life. And really, unless you're a contestant on Jeopardy (which is actually my secret wish) when do you need to spot Slovakia on a map in under 3 seconds?

Fast forward 20 years. Family Computers are on sale again. It's retro now. Like java lamps and bean bags. P1,000 at Crossings Department Store. The other week I accompanied a friend to buy a unit. We went through dozens of 48 in 1 game cartridges to make sure we got just the right one. The one with Super Mario, PacMan and Tennis. We couldn't find it. We ended up buying 3 different cartridges.

While she tested the console, I tested the games. And not surprisingly, 20 years later, I still suck.

I'll take former Czech Republic regions for 800, Alex.

Lazy Sundays

I've been out of work for almost 6 weeks now. After staying at home in your pyjamas for a considerable amount of time, all days become eerily similar.

You figure out a routine for yourself. Mine involves a lot of reading and French movies. But my daily regimen is not the subject matter of this blog (I can write volumes about that another time). On this lazy Sunday evening, I want to write about lazy Sundays.

There's something about Sundays. There's a mood, a quality of light, a special way time passes a little slower than usual. Since I've been out of the workforce, I can't tell a Monday from a Friday. But Sundays... I can always tell if it's Sunday.

On Sundays, you feel like you're expected to stay in bed and lounge. The world requires nothing from you. On Sundays, you feel like you need to have hearty lunch, nap in the afternoon, read the paper or a book.

Sunday is the day of rest, even for the idle and unemployed.

Ponti

A close friend from law school celebrated her birthday by buying everyone dinner at Il Ponticello. When we heard about the plans, the first question from everyone was, "Bukas pa ba 'yun?"

Ang sagot: "Oo."

It's still very open and oh so very hip. When the old phogies left at midnight (because it got too noisy) the kiddies were just herding in. (Note to self: Really skimpy shorts are now acceptable clothing at restaurants and bars.)

The last time I was at Ponti was in law school (we graduated in '99), and at that time it was arguably the coolest place in town. We'd sit at those tables along the wall and make lots of noise as the rest of the clientele tried to eat their dinner in peace. (Remember when making noise was cool? Made you feel part of the "in" crowd? If you can't, then you're really old.)

A group of 8 would order one pizza and a whole lotta drinks. We'd get just a bit too rowdy then the clock struck one and everyone had to get going. People had curfews.

Tonight everyone had at least three courses and only a few had wine. Everyone whined about the noise though, and the general demographic of the other customers (i.e. do these people even work for a living?).

The food's still good though. The tuna carpaccio is worth writing home about. So was the anchovy pizza. We tried two kinds of risotto (seafood and mushroom) and both were satisfactory. The coffee was not hot enough though. Ghrrr...

Opening Windows

Today, I resigned from the only job I've ever had. A job I held for 7 years. A job I liked. A job I was good at. A job I'd never thought I'd leave. But plans change, new opportunities present themselves.

And so you leap.

2008

The number of songs in my new iPod. I doubt if I'll listen to more than a hundred regularly. I don't even know why I have this compulsive need to load all of my CD's into it. Since buying the pod on Thursday, I've spent more than 18 continuous hours on this activity. And it's great because 1) you load more songs (yay!) and 2) you learn a lot about yourself, the way your musical tastes have evolved over the years.

For example, I own not one, but two Stephen Bishop CD's. I even own (GASP!) a Kenny G compilation. Can you believe this? To those reading this, I will perfectly understand if you have at this moment decided to un-friend me. Heck, even I would un-friend me if I could. Kenny G!! (And yes, un-friend is a perfectly acceptable made-up word.)

Then there was the motion picture score phase. Talented Mr. Ripley. American Beauty. Bed of Roses. Please, do not mistake this for the soundtrack phase or music-inspired-by-so-and-so-movie phase. Musicial scores only, please. I was in law school, I was pretentious.

A lot of chick music: Alanis, Indigo Girls, Jann Arden, Alana Davis, Julia Fordham, Everything But the Girl.

And recently, a lot (and I mean a lot) of pirated CD's. Compilations of all sorts. Alternative Live, Alternative Route, Alternative Tounge, Alternative Contagion. I cannot remember buying all those CD's, but apparently, I did. These were the days when they just mastered piracy. Remember when you spent P750 in 1992 to buy a compilation of 80's hits?! In 2002 you could buy the same compilation for P50.

So here I am again, furiously adding songs to my little black pod and finding more about myself. Tonight I've realized that in terms of music, I've gone from baduy to cheap in 15 years.

Spell Hypocrite

I've heard people talk about this attribute, but I've never been confronted with it, until today.

Today I got a nasty e-mail from someone, accusing me of being dishonest. It felt weird. Not because it wasn't true (I really could have been more forthright in my dealings with this person. I'm not even going to begin to defend myself on this one.) but because I know this person did exactly the same thing in the past. I know this because she told me she did it.

That stinging feeling you get after being called something bad was overshadowed by this overwhelming awareness of hypocrisy. How could anyone call me dishonest with such venom when that same person has admitted to doing the same thing? This is just plain unbelievable!

So I thought about how I should respond (I was considering the whole "it takes one to know one" theme) but decided that the grown-up thing to do is just keep quiet and to let things end here.

So I will.

The task at hand

I'm about to relocate. Last time I did this was 3 years ago. And that was for school, so it doesn't really count. I don't know where to start. My regular packing technique -- which involves opening an empty suitcase and throwing random pieces of clothing into it -- may not cut it. I'm leaving for good, and I guess this means I need to bring all my worldly possessions with me. Well, almost all.

I'm very excited. The flight to Hong Kong may just be 90 minutes, but it's a world away as far as I'm concerned. New job, new apartment, new friends. Well, right now no friends, but I'll soon take care of that.

Chinese Curse

A Chinese curse goes, "may all your wishes be granted."

I got the job. I move to Hong Kong in about four weeks.