Reality Check

I cleaned out my office today. Took down my name plate from the door and took the last of my stuff home.

While waiting for the janitor to take my boxes away, I sat on one of my visitor's chairs and thought about all the things that had gone on in that room. The meetings, the impromptu wine parties, the heated phone calls, the late late nights, the pre-dawn conference calls.

It's remarkable how life at the Perm can consume you. Until recently, every waking (and sometimes sleeping) hour of my life was immersed in work. Every deal was important. Every document to be preserved, every little thing of utmost importance. I felt that each transaction was the center of the universe, and I had the cosmic responsibility to safeguard it. Talk about quixotic megalomania.

As I closed my office door for the last time, I realized that however I may felt about the importance of my work at the Perm, I really was just another worker ant. A cog in the very large wheel of corporate law.

In a few weeks, some other lawyer will take my room, another name will go on the door, and I will fade into the Perm's hazy memory of former associates.

So much for my cosmic responsibilities.

Leap Year

When I was in high school, I overheard fellow Camper K. talking to A. A. was a popular kid, the daughter of a politician. A was a nice girl, but let's just say she was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

What you are about to read is entirely factual. I am making none of this up. My name is Jona, not James Fray. (And if you don't believe me, ask K.)

A: K, is today really your birthday?
K: Yes, it's today, August 31.
A: Oh really?! That's so cool! Happy birthday!
K: Thanks!
(Awkward silence)
A: I have a question though.
K: Yep?
A: What do you do during those years when there's no 31 in August?

The Fray

I'm not a music buff. Mostly, I listen to stuff on the radio.

But lately, I discovered The Fray. They're pretty good. A little grungy, a little pop rock. Sort of like Goo Goo Dolls for the younger generation.

I don't particulalry enjoy reading music reviews because I feel that the experience of listening to music can't be translated into words. So I won't bother with writing one. But I do find cut selections useful. So if you do decide to listen to The Fray's latest album, How to Save a Life, jump to the title track. I also like Vienna and Over My Head.

Check them out!

My POEA Adventure (Part III)

It's official: I am a card carrying overseas contract worker.



I thought that was a nice smile, considering that the picture was taken after two hours of heat and frustration. And if you're wondering, the card doesn't work. It's really just an ID card, with a tie up with a bank in case the OCW is interested. This OCW is not.

My POEA Adventure (Part II)

I'm writing this from an internet cafe in Robinson's Galleria. I need to kill an hour to know if my documents will be processed today or if I have to come back tomorrow. My money is on coming back tomorrow. But I'll wait anyway.

Today was (is) not as benign as Friday. I got to the POEA at 7:45 this morning because they told me to be there at 7:45. No one told me that you can't wait inside on Mondays because of the blasted flag ceremony (complete with Panatang Makabayan and self-glorifying speech of POEA Administrator). So I was squished among the sea of humanity waiting in the (get this) the "waiting area" cordorned off for stupid people like me who arrive when they're instructed to.

I finally get into the PDOS room a quarter after 8, and for 5 hours after that, I had to sit through what would have been a very instructive course for someone who has never been on an airplane before. Things discussed: what you can bring with you (no guns and ammunition), how to use the seatbelt (connect two ends) and overhead compartment (lift metal latch to open, wait to hear click when shutting). Reminders: don't sit on the first available seat you see, the food is free.

I'll blog again on how the rest of my day(s) goes. But I want to mention something that struck me this morning. At the beginning of the orientation, our moderator asked who had jobs here before deciding to go overseas. About half a dozen arms shot up in the air, mine included.

There were at least 200 people in the room.

x x x

I'm back home now. True enough, I need go back tomorrow.

Ako Ang Balat Sa Pwet Ng Ateneo

Fact: I watched almost every single basketball game of Ateneo between the years 1990-2001. Ateneo consistently placed poorly during this period.

Fact: Ateneo won the UAAP Championships in 2002.

Fact: I was in NY in 2002.

Fact: I have not watched a single Ateneo game this season until today.

Fact: Ateneo has won 8 straight games until today.

Half Bike + Half Treadmill = All Fun

I wish I could say that I knew what an elliptical machine was before today, but I can’t.

I wish I could say that I knew how to work the elliptical machine as soon as I got on it, but I couldn’t.

I wish I could say that I found the rhythm of the movements natural and easy, but I didn’t.

I wish I could say that I was on the elliptical machine for half an hour, but I wasn’t.

I wish I could say that I the elliptical machine is my new favorite exercise contraption, so I will. The elliptical machine is phenomenal! It makes you sweat incredible amounts in the shortest amount of time. 5 minutes on the elliptical is like 15 on the treadmill.

Haaaayop!

My POEA Adventure (Part I)

I spent two hours at the POEA today. An hour and half in the morning and another half hour in the afternoon. Between those two periods of chaos, heat and immersion into the sea of humanity, I killed time at home counting shirts for the movers who'll come by next week. The process was not as painful as what people had described. In fact it was not bad, not bad at all.

(This is of course what they call the benefit of hindsight. When I was there, I sweaty, cranky, uptight and impatient. Sort of like me on a regular day, sans the sweaty part.)

POEA opens at 8 in the morning. When I got there at 8:07 there were 59 people ahead of me. The direct-hire receiving desk takes in only 60 people a day. You have one guess who no. 60 was.

Most of the hour and a half was spent waiting for my name to be called by the harassed lady at the counter. When I finally got there, harassed lady was on the phone. She looked at me, took my documents, and gave me a badly mimeographed piece of paper.

"Come back after lunch", she said with a smile. I guess she was happy to see the end of the line.

The mimeo sheet was a PDOS (pronounced "pee-dos") referral. PDOS stands for Pre-Departure Orientation Seminar. From one line to turn in my docs, I need to fall in the PDOS line, to get myself "enrolled" for Monday's 8am-12noon class. I'll blog about it.

By the time I get my PDOS scheduled, it's only 930. The malls aren't open yet. I figure I can wait and say a prayer at the EDSA shrine or go home, veg, have lunch and count t-shirts. That was a tough one. But I went home.

6 hours later I'm back at POEA. I wait for about half an hour, then my name gets called. After a careful review of my documents, the lady at the counter points out that my contract with the Feerm (the largest law firm in the state of New York) does not have a repatriation clause. You know, that clause that says if I die, my employers need to repatriate my remains to the Philippines at their cost. Yes, that repatriation clause. She says I need to go back to the Feerm and ask them to sign this addendum to my offer letter.

Hmmmm.

It was at this time that I considered grabbing my documents and running out of there. To erase all record of me being ever at the POEA. I would rather swim to Hong Kong than have to go back to the Feerm to ask them to sign a piece of paper that says they have to pay for the cost of airlifting my cold dead body back to the Pilipins.

I was eyeing the exit and how fast I could make it there if I did make a run for it when the lady at the counter said,

"Or you can sign a waiver." I guess she saw how mortified I looked.

I thought, "Where do I sign?! I want to sign now. Please make me sign now. Please. For the love of God."

I signed the sheet, but as Philippine government offices go, the person who is supposed to take the sheet wasn't there, so I need to come back on Monday. Which is just as well, since I have to go back anyway get PDOS-ed.

The day's trip to the POEA was surprisingly short. And if I had a handle on the process from the beginning, I imagine I wouldn't have been that uptight. But it really is a madhouse out there, thousands of sweaty people milling around, looking lost, clutching plastic folders with pictures of themselves plastered on the shiny pink, or sometimes green transparent folders. If you thought about it for one second you would realize that these people just want to leave the country to make more money elsewhere. They're there for a shot for a better life, a brighter future.

Just like me.

I am Lex Luthor

I received my HK work permit today. I also got a clean bill of health from the Lopez Medical Clinic and Laboratory along Quezon Avenue. I feel like all the chips are falling into place, my plans for taking over Earth are taking shape.

Tomorrow, I battle the forces of the POEA. Wish me luck, people.

All Pain, No Gain

Today is the 17th consecutive day I've been to the gym or spent an hour whacking a shuttlecock with a badminton trainer (one day I actually spent an hour in the gym and played badminton).

I feel stronger. The first day I could hardly finish 45 minutes on the treadmill (walk on a slight incline). Now I do 60 minutes of brisk walking with a steep incline and hardly break a sweat. Naks.

I sleep better. No longer do I toss and turn before being able to fall asleep. I hit the sack, read a bit, fall into dreamland. Like clockwork.

My clothes fit better. It's not dramatic, but shirts seem to fall better on me now. Jeans zip up easier.

I HAVE LOST NO WEIGHT.

I weigh EXACTLY what I did 17 days ago. This is f*cking unbelievable.

But I am unfazed, will be back tomorrow, and then the day after that.

Kubrador

I saw Kubrador today. It's about a jueteng bookie played by Gina Pareno. It was good, but I only figured that out about three-fourths into the movie. At first I thought Kubrador was slow and boring. You see, I thought the movie had a traditional plot. You know, one with a beginning, middle and an end. But it didn't. It was more like 6 separate episodes from a kubrador's life. The "stories" are not related, apart from sharing a main character; one storyline does not lead to the next (which really got me frustrated during most of the movie.)

I thought that the scenes built on each other, like a regular movie (you know, one with plot development). And they sort of did, then did not. Which left the viewer wondering whether there was a main storyline. Finally, on the fourth unresolved story (they're not strictly stories since the movie flows from scene to scene uninterrupted) I figured it out. There IS NO PLOT. These are just random days in the life of a kubrador.

Ahhh. Light shines on marblehead.

Of course, I could just be the one big idiot who didn't get it and everyone else in the theater (the 5 other people) knew what was going on from the start. The confusion could have been easily solved by separating each "sketch" with a dark screen. I have no idea why the director did not use this rather basic storytelling technique.

(I have seen several full length movies without a traditional plot: Nine Lives, Things You Can Tell Just By Looking At Her, 13 Conversations About One Thing. And that genre can be a very effective way of storytelling (with seemingly unrelated events having an underlying theme that is very subtlely, yet so effectively presented), but you need to make your viewer know that the scenes are disjointed. Otherwise, the moviegoer will try to patch the scenes together for continuity: it's human nature. And if continuity is something the filmmaker is not going for, the end result is a rather confusing and frustrating experience.)

But anyway, moving on.

After I walked out of the theater, I tried to remember the earlier scenes, tried to separate them and enjoy them individually. They were good. The chase scene that opened the movie gave the viewer an overview of the topography of a Manila slum colony. (The kubrador who is chased does not appear elsewhere in the film, so don't bother waiting to figure out what happens to him.) The sketch where Amy (Pareno) collects bets from customers was great for her character development, but it should be viewed precisely for this purpose only. (I kept watching out for the bettors to see if they would appear later in the film: they never did).

There were a number of "non-actors" involved, and their performances were honest and meaningful. However, the professional actors (apart from Pareno whose performance was noteworthy) were hams.

Overall I thought Kubrador was satisfactory (although the camera work progressively deteriorated). It is an accurate depiction of slum life in Manila and succeeded in making subtle political statements in the process. (In one memorable scene in a cemetery, a man asks where he can find Erap's grave. Mahusay.)

More Powers

Half of the Campers were out today (the Campers being my high school crew). We had our standard 2 hour-lunch, this time at Chocolate Kiss along Roces. Afterwards, we went next door to Papemelroti's main branch (the "Mothership" according to C.).

We goofed around for almost an hour commenting on the silly inscriptions on the magnets and assorted bric-a brac. There was a button for sale that read, "I LOVE DE GUZMAN TECH." Asked K., "Why did they bother to make that?"

As I was paying for the Pinoy inspired cards I wanted to buy (foreigners just eat that stuff up) I noticed a guestbook leaning against a vase on the counter. I leafed through it and scanned the inscriptions customers before me had scribbled in.

One read, "Friendly service; creative items. More powers."

Hmmm.

I mulled over the testimonial for a while longer and tried not to laugh. In fact, I tried really hard to think of a situation where "more powers" would be an accurate, nay, an appropriate message.

So this is what I came up with as I was fishing money out of my pocket to pay the cashier:

I'm at a wedding, and I'm giving the maid of honor speech in honor of the groom, my best buddy Superman. I open with your traditional, "I've known Ka-el a long time now, and we've been through a lot..." I side step his former marriage to Louise Lane and his recent bout with substance abuse. With a nostalgic note I reminisce about Ka-el turning back time so I could cheat on my finals in high school and when he did it again a few years ago to make a killing at the stock market.

I end the speech by raising my glass to the happy couple and say, "Superman, my friend, my buddy, my amigo. I wish you lifelong happiness, contentment, and peace of mind. And in addition to your x-ray vision, I wish you elasticity. More powers."

Movie Fatigue

Since I've been on forced vacation, I've seen about 50 movies, give or take a few. That's approximately 5 movies a week. At the start it was addictive. I couldn't wait to get through one film and jump to the next. It was like a game: how many movies can I watch a day? (I think at my peak I saw 5 in one day.) I had themes: multi-plot line movies, French movies, biopics.

But now though, I think I've developed movie fatigue. I can't seem to get through one without stopping in the middle to do some inane task, like rearranging my sock drawer. It's like I should be doing something else apart from killing time watching a movie.

I think my attention span has shrunk to that of a dog's. Can't seem to read long passages either. I hope the movie fatigue goes away soon though. With almost all my pre-departure errands completed, I don't know what else there is to do.

I See Crazy People

I've blogged a lot about my recent sojourns to the gym, and hopefully you've made a mental picture of what it's like. It's the gym in a (rather run down) sports club. Not a "stand alone" gym like Fitness First or Gold's. This gym is very cheap (i.e. P40/hour that I just sign for) and very pathetic. Two lonely treadmills in a room full of rather archaic weight machines. I go there because no one will know me.

There are a number of crazy (or sometimes just plain creepy) people at my gym. Here are a few of them:

1. Lady Using Treadmill Backwards

This woman takes the loony cake. She exercises backwards. To say she is distracting is an understatement. Imagine you've been on the treadmill 15 minutes, keeping a steady pace, focusing on a tiny dot at the opposite wall, running until your legs get all wobbly, then she's right next to you: walking backwards.

2. Big Creepy Gay Guy

Believe me, I am gender neutral, but BCGG just freaks me out. He's uber big, and he doesn't look at women. But when it comes to boys, he'll flat out stare. I have to admit that at first I was slightly slighted by his disinterest (this even with the 30 pounds I need to lose). BCGG just wouldn't even acknowledge my existense. (He's there almost everyday and I thought I'd make a friend. You know, a big creepy guy friend.) Then while I was running alongside Skinny Boy on the treadmill, I fugured it out.

3. Food Channel Junkie

This Lady likes watching the Food Channel on the gym tv. There's a tiny set mounted on the wall in front of the treadmills, and Food Channel Lady will automatically grab the remote and put her favorite channel on. As a chef prepares juicy steaks and fluffy air light pastries, you run. It's twisted, it's sick. Why can't we watch the Sports Channel.

Me, Myself and I

I just got home from the first of what will be a series of dinner parties to say goodbye to friends. I don't have many friends, but I do have many "sub-groups" of friends. People I know from different parts of my life who have nothing to do with each other apart from having me as a common acquaintance.

It's nice having all these different little pockets of people in your life. You tend to take on a slightly different persona with each group, depending on what kind of person you were growing up when you met them and depending also on the social constructs and shared interests that define your relationships.

To illustrate: I'm a little more goofy with my high school classmates. I've known them since I was a child. A little more nerdy and competitive with my law school group, I didn't do well in school for nothin'. A little more articulate with the office crowd: there's always someone to impress. And of course, a little more of a lush with my weekend pals; that's sort of all we do.

Chummy Chum Chum

I had dinner with Chum last night. We went to this place called Lemuria in Horsehoe Village. Very chic, very expensive, very Chum.

We used to be inseperable, Chum and I. But time passes and things change. I moved away for a while, we both left the Perm (my old law firm). After almost daily contact for 2 years (countless movies, dozens of vacations and mini-breaks), we did not speak for two years. Oddly, we did not seem to miss each other.

Lately though, I've been spending time with Chum again. She prepped me for my interview with the Feerm (my new law firm) and nagged me to get on a plane the day before my interview. Stupid me, I had planned to take the first flight out at 6 in the morning of the big day. She pointed out (by yelling at me) that that would mean to show up for a 10am interview, I needed to get up at 3am.

Chum looks out for me, and for that I am very grateful.

Before I walked into my interview, I promised her an exorbitant dinner anywhere in Manila if I got the job. And I did. She picked Lemuria, which was just as well. I'd been meaning to try it since it opened in June.

The verdict: the food overpriced; the wine passable; the company fantastic.

Jona’s Vocabulary

1. “No judgment.”

Something you say after you’ve expressed an apparently critical, but otherwise objectively accurate statement.

Example:

Tyra Banks is so feeling; no judgment. Hitler is guilty of genocide; no judgment.

2. 2000

Makes any adjective (although sometimes used with a noun) a super superlative.

Example:

Sadness 2000. (What you feel after your pet dies.)
Init 2000 (What you’d say on a hot day in April.)
Puson 2000 (How you would describe your tummy when you’re bloated.)
Feeling 2000 (How you would describe Tyra Banks.)

3. VG

Short for “very good”. Most appropriate as deadpan response to unbelievably good news. Useful when sending SMS messages, but may also be used in regular conversations.

Example:

‘‘Jona, this is Brandon Routh. I’m on my way to pick you up for a night of debauchery. Afterwards, I’m giving you 2 gazillions dollars.”

“VG”

4. Wait! or Stop!

Can be used interchangeably to interrupt someone speaking (the person speaking could be yourself) to veer the conversation into another direction.

Example:

Me: "So that's how the movie ended, with Tom Cruise jumping off.... Wait! I need to tell you about my dream last night. I dreamt I was being chased by this headless horseman..."

Person I'm speaking with: "Stop! When are we going to plan the baby shower?"

5. Ok, goodbye.

Said sternly, and with purpose. It is how I end all phone calls with my law school friends. Initially it sounds like I’m mad or something, but it’s supposed to be funny. Not many people get this one.

6. Parang, no./Parang, yes.

Said as a response to stupid questions that should not be asked because the answer is obvious.

Example:

Q: “Do you want to watch Tyra?”
A: “Parang, no.”

Q: “Do you want another beer?”
A: "Parang, yes."

When I Turn 69

I want to have read as many books as he has.
Seen as many places, met as many people.
I want to live in a big house with people who love me.
Eat chicharon and watch the news all day.

Other People's Blogs

Have you tried reading other people's blogs? I mean strangers'. People you have no connection with, people who have simply decided to post their lives on-line for all to read.

It's scary sh*t, man. Scary for them.

These people post details of their lives. And when I mean details, I mean minutiae. Where they live and work, dental appointments, fights with their parents, what they had for breakfast, their love lives, their sex lives. It's all there. For anyone to read. Businesses gone south, break-ups, what they think of certain (identified) people.

It's all there.

I've tried not to reveal too much of myself with this blog, although I realize a blog is intrinsically a first person narration of things and eventually the narrator has to reveal herself. Having said that, I don't think I would be comfortable "sharing" my private ideas with the world.

There are certain things I want to say out loud, and I do, through this medium. Funny stories, sketches, random events from my life. And I think you can do that without giving away too much.

I'm thinking some people blog to tell stories, others blog to reveal themselves to the world. Internet nudists, you could say.

Ode to Treadmills


This is Ok Go's latest video (Here It Goes Again). It's made in one shot, no cuts. Very cool.

I'm celebrating my sixth consecutive day on the treadmill. Yay!

Diet of the Mind

At the end of the movie Beautiful Mind, the main character, mathematician John Nash (played by Russel Crowe), tells a colleague that he has not gotten over his mental illness. That his demons continue to haunt him, except that he makes a willful effort not to succumb to them. Nash says surviving mental illness is like a “diet of the mind.”

That one line had an effect on me (apart from memorizing the phrase and integrating it into conversation). I think it’s absolutely correct: there are certain (compulsive) acts we can control by willing ourselves to do so. It is very difficult, but it can be done with a lot of self control, focused determination and discipline.

Now if I can just take my own advice.

Places I've Been

create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

Pretty cool, eh?

Site says I've been to only 14% of the world. I say that's pretty damned good.

Should do more travelling with the new job. I vow to update this map in a year's time.

So You're A Lawyer?

I get this all the time. Like a statement of disbelief, people I've just met will always react with hint of surprise when they find out what I do for a living. I've always wondered about this. Before I thought it was my age or, dare I say it, my youthful appearance. But I've been at this lawyering gig for a while now (almost 7 years) and I still get the raised eyebrows, the quizzical looks. Do I look like a doctor? A chemist? A gardener? And for that matter, what do lawyers look like? Do I need to wear suspenders?

After people find out about the lawyer thing, they will invariably ask for my opinion on the current political state of the Philippines. Why do they do this? Do they think I know GMA? Do they think I care? Why would my opinion on politics be more valuable than their own? I have no interest whatsoever in Philippine politics. And cannot imagine why people automatically think that if you went to law school, you're the Philippine equivalent of George Stephanopoulos.

Once I've given them my standard answers to the politics questions ("Can't really say." or "That is an interesting topic for debate.") people then go straight to the consulta. They start telling me stories about their brother-in-law's aunt's boyfriend or their first cousin's boss' wife's accountant. Usually the questions involve family law (i.e. annulment, inheritance) and property (i.e. disputes over real estate).

Now I am a Capital Markets attorney. In plain English that means I raise money for rich people. I know just about as much as you do on annulment and disputes over land. And so when the request for legal advice comes, I do what any self-respecting attorney would do: I make things up.

"Of course snoring is a ground for annulment." "Forging dead relatives signatures is permissible some times." "If you think you're entitled to the land, then go ahead: build that fence."

Why can't people come up to me and ask, "How do you issue convertible bonds to 12 different kinds of investors?" "What issues have you encountered in listing redeemable prefs?" "We're looking towards creating a sub-class of third tier creditors. Can you help us out?"

Why do I always get the annulment questions?

Body Types

After extensive anthropological study (three consecutive days at the gym), I have come to the conclusion that people who go to the gym have only three body types. (There are probably more, but they don't go to my gym.)

1. The Fat People

These are the people who are trying to lose weight. I belong to this category. These guys are extremely unattractive, but you gotta hand it to them for their discipline (if they stick it out) and strength of will. They're usually on the treadmill and sweat profusely. They can tell jokes and are generally great conversationalists.

2. The Buff People

These are your traditional gym bunnies. They look awsome. Straight out of Men's Health. And they know it. These guys constantly stare at themselves while they are in the gym. Even as they stretch, take a sip of water, or as they wipe their sweaty brow, they take a peek at themselves at the mirror (and then they flex). They are quiet and focused as they work out. Most have single digit IQ's.

3. The Thin People

Now I don't know what these types are doing in the gym. Really. They're so thin. As in Etheopian thin. Emaciated, straight out of a concentration camp payat. And then they lift weights and think they can turn themselves into Brandon Routh. Yup. That'll work. For sure. Pagbutihin nyo. Thin guys are dreamers. They believe in the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, and that myth called true love.

Sizing You Up

When I walk into a badminton court, and lately the gym, I classify the women I encounter into two categories: those I can take down and those I cannot.

I think this has to do with my being excessively competitive. I need to measure up against my enemies, or the stranger who happens to be using the weight machine right next to mine. When put in an environment of competition (i.e. the gym, the office, a coffee shop) I need to know my place vis-a-vis the other women surrounding me.

And so began my recent morning ritual of schlepping to the gym after checking e-mail (which occurs shortly after I get up). I walk in and some girly girl is using my treadmill. It is mine because I used it yesterday. It is mine also because it works better than the other treadmill. There are only two treadmills at my gym. (I go to a really squatter gym. It's the "free" gym at the sports club next to the house.)

Back to Girly Girl on Jona's treadmill.

"Fine." I tell myself. I'll use the other one. And so I walk/jog/run/walk/walk/walk and sort of just jump around trying to find my pace. (Please refer to yesterday's post.) By my minute 17, Girly Girl gets off my treadmill and gets on the exercise bike.

"Aha!" I think to myself. "I knew it. Girly Girl is a weakling. Can't even sustain a 17 minute walk." GG just kept on walking mind you. She never attempted to run. Not like me.

Since I'm mid-set (I imagine gym bunnies talk like this. I don't really know what they say.) I decide to stick with the ugly machine and finish off my 8 remaining minutes. I cool down, walk around, and have a drink of water before getting on my machine for my second set. I am impregnable.

Note that between the time I got off the ugly treadmill and started on my treadmill, the last person to use my treadmill was Girly Girl, so her stats were still on it (again, I'm making up the linggo here). I nonchalantly glance at the machine and notice her minute count: 42:35.

So ok, fine. Girly Girl can walk far. Whoopee-f*ing-doo.

I start on my treadmill and begin with a relaxed pace of 2.5 miles an hour with a slight but noticeable incline. I find the All Things Considered podcast on my i-Pod and start walking. Everything is good in the world.

And then in comes Skinny Girl and she gets on the ugly treadmill. I take one look at her and think I can SO take her down. She wouldn't last 30 seconds in a boxing ring with me. At about 5''1, 105 pounds, I imagined pummeling her with my hands behind my back.

As I completely dismiss Skinny Girl and listen to a Tom Petty feature, I notice though that it takes SG some time to start. Poor girl, she must be dumb too. Let us be kind to the less fortunate. I feel like Mike Tyson with the heart of Gandhi. (I know, that's not consistent, but really, that's how I felt towards Skinny Girl. Like I could smash her into smithereens, but I won't since she's slow and I am enlightened.)

But then I realize that Skinny Girl is taking long to start because she's putting the ugly treadmill into maximum incline (like 45 degrees or something whacked like that) and setting the pace at 5 miles an hour. Skinny Girl would put Mauresmo to shame. And she kept at it, at that steep incline and that rigorous pace for more than 20 minutes.

As SG owned the ugly treadmill, I tried very hard to disappear. I closed my eyes and focused while I used all my telekinetic powers to make me vanish from the gym and re-appear back home, but it didn't work. I opened my eyes and I was still going at 2.5 miles an hour with an incline that would not tire an ant.

Finally my set ended, I cooled down and sat while I caught my breath (SG was still at it, by the way). As I walked out of the gym, two senior ladies were on their way in, chatting. They were both well over 60. I could tell this by their funny outfits and orange hair.

I smiled to myself as the thought of me taking them both down at once crossed my mind. I signed for the fees and looked back into the gym just in time to see Orange Lady 1 doing reps with a 15 pound barbell.

Jona The Exercise Retard

Today I spent 45 minutes on a treadmill. It was one of the most difficult things I've ever done in my life. And no, it was not an exhaustion issue. I've been playing badminton, I'm (only) 31. My endurance levels are still passable.

It was the simple act of running/walking on the moving belt that I had serious difficulty with. I just don't know how to do it. I go too slow or I go too fast. I cannot seem to "get" the right pace. Also, I am certain my technique (whatever the hell it is) is wrong. Why? Because I get vertigo after each set. This while I bring down the pace ever so slowly when getting off the damned thing.

The simple truth is that I am physically challenged in this respect. Just like my blind side on questions involving patterns and spatial analysis (how the f*ck am I supposed to know what follows the cube with three sides shaded in) I cannot seem to master the technique of running in place.

There's something about the rhythm of the treadmill that I can't seem to match. I am perpertually out of sync. I'm like a magnetized compass, an uncalibrated meter, a machine you need to quadrate then recalibrate....

I'm pretty sure you're thinking: Oh save the hifalutin hogwash, Jona.

You can't run for sh*t.

On Doing Nothing

Let me begin by saying that I realize that my current situation is a blessing. I understand that having nothing to do yet not to worry about finances (because I saved) or the future (I have a great job waiting for me in Hong Kong) is some people's idea of happiness. I know this. I am not an ingrate.

What I am though is restless.

Everyday I think of something to do and my days are packed with mundane tasks like getting haircuts and playing badminton. But however "busy" my day is, I get this nagging feeling that I'm neither here nor there. I'm stuck in the middle of two phases in my life.

I am in limbo.

These last 10 weeks have been fun, but they have also been artificial. I'm not meant to sit around all day and watch French movies (despite how brillant they may be). I think that I was built to read contracts, negotiate deals, argue points. Being on break is restful, but it's not real life.

And I'm wasting my time.

I feel that I'm not applying myself, that my analytical skills are being wasted on Sudoku, my eye-hand coordiation once used to type dozens of words a minute is now wasted on PacMan (I'm up to 87,640 by the way).

I've come to realize though that I need to change my attitude towards this seemlingly unwelcome vacation. I need to consider this down time as something meaningful in itself. Not just a break between chapters of my life, but a period of rest in itself. Valuable time to spend with family and friends. Time to eat healthy and exercise. Time to read all those books I own but never get a chance to go through.

I need to let go and start enjoying myself.

In Good Company

This morning I woke up with an upper lip the size of a lighter. No, not the disposable kind. We're talking Zippo. I'm thinking the culprit is a relative of one of the millions of bugs I've tortured or killed in my lifetime. I am having insect karma.

But being the eternal optimist, I thought about the Hollywood stars that have used their own pillow lips (whether God-given or MD supplied) to their advantage. Here are just a few of them:








And of course, the one who started it all:

One Big Fight

After a 13 (or was it 14?) year losing streak, Ateneo won the UAAP men's basketball championships in 2002. That was the year I moved to NY to get my LL.M.

I missed that season.

I was really disappointed about not being here to see Ateneo win. After years and years of losing, after 8 years of going to games as an Atenean (just to see your team lose every single time), we finally won. We were champions.

And I was away.

It looks like the Blue Eagles are going to win this year. They swept the first round effortlessly. Some say the reason for that is because La Salle is disqualified from play this year. It doesn't matter to me. If we win, we win.

And I will be away again.

Happy Birthday R.

I've known R. since I was 12. We went to high school together. She lent me money, I shared my fish fillet lunch. We planned complete world domination at 14.

We went to college together. On her 18th birthday, I made 18 people (classmates, her boyfriend, some strangers) give her pink roses throughout the day. She organized my surprise hawaiian debut.

I went to law school, she went to work. I went to graduate school, so did she. I got qualified in New York, she planned a wedding. I started teaching law, she started playing mommy. We are so different now and yet still the same.

Tonight I'm having dinner at her parent's house in San Juan. We'll play with her daughter, K., talk about my new job and plan Phase 6 of complete world domination.

If Jona Would Endorse Yonex

I was sitting on the plastic benches along the side of the badminton courts, sweating profusely and breathing laboriously. I'd been whacking a shuttlecock with a club pro for exactly 2 and a half minutes. I was taking my first break.

In those seconds of recovery from intense physical activity (when the brain doesn't have enough oxygen) I thought about what it would be like if I, Jona, the back-to-back Olympic gold medalist for badminton, would endorse Yonex, the world's most popular and successful manufacturer of badminton equipment.

I figured the TV ad should be a 30 second version of a typical hour of my "training sessions."

So it will be something like this:

Techno music as I drive Ford Escape to court. Shot of my Mizuno gum soled shoes. Cut to me stretching, showing logo of my (fake) Nike shirt. Then it's a shot of me tossing two brand new shuttlecocks on the court. Close-up of the shuttlecocks falling on the green mat to show the brand: RSL. Camera back to me as I swing my racket in the air. Special "camera clicking" effect as separate slow motion frames are necessary to show logo of racket. We need this since my all-graphite Astec racket goes really really fast.

I hit the shuttlecock with an invisible opponent for a couple of seconds then I sit and gulp down a sweaty bottle of red Gatorade. This resting part goes on for the remaining 18 seconds of the ad.

I don't know about you, but I'm thinking this pitch would go very well with Yonex execs.

Brenner Needs A Bartend

My standards are pretty low. My only requirement for a dessert place is that it should serve beer.

Max Brenner does not serve beer.

So you can imagine my disappointment last night when I tried to order a SMB Light. (Hey, that rhymes!) Apparently, while MB serves 32 kinds of chocolate, it serves 0 kinds of beer. My friends offered to move, but I figured that like McGyver, I could get myself out of a situation using the bare materials at hand. The situation being we had just sat down to have dessert at a no beer establishment.

I looked around the room and spotted a shelf with what looked like bottles of booze. As I approached the wall I confirmed that the bottles did in fact contain liquor. But upon even closer inspection, I realized that the bottles contained liqueur. You know, stuff like schnapps, curacao, Irish cream, etc.

"I can work with this," I thought.

I scanned the bottles again and spotted a dusty bottle of vodka tucked way in the back. There was vermouth so I asked the waiter if he knew how to make martinis. He responded by giving me a blank stare. Then I asked him if he had orange juice, and he said he just ran out. Great. There goes my Screwdriver.

In about 30 seconds I figured out the different drinks I could prepare. With vodka, schnapps and a few other ingredients on hand, I could make something like 3 different drinks (Mandy Candy, Hard Goya, etc). I add the Irish cream into the formula and we're in for a good time (Mudslide, Screaming Orgasm, etc.). But the waiter looked clueless. I think he wanted me to order a coffee.

So I in a resigned tone I asked, "May Sprite ba, Boss?"

Finally the waiter responds. He asked if I wanted a single or a double.

I think you can guess how McGyver replied.

Answer Me This

I just got off the phone with N, my buddy from the office who calls me The Bear. She calls me that because of my current sedentary lifestyle. Until recently N and I would pull 16-hour days, five sometimes six days a week. This gruelling pace would go on for months.

Up to the time I left my job in May, I was a very high stressed individual. Surviving (with the help of a lot of caffeine) on an average of 4.5 hours of sleep a night. I'd close one deal one day and move to another on the next. There was no rest for the Capital Markets Senior Ass. (That's short for Associate, not a description of my personality, although others would not agree.)

But that was then and this is now. Now I nap 5 hours a day. I have not had a cup of coffee in a week, and have no idea what the next big deal is in the market. I'm stress free and rather happy. Although I must admit I miss not being in the know.

But wait, I digress.

Tonight's post was, well is, supposed to be about bears. Cartoon bears to be specific. On her way home from work (check time of this post) N and I were discussing the different cartoon bears of our youth. Yogi Bear and his nephew Boo Boo Bear, Winnie the Pooh, Fozzie Bear, Paddington Bear, the Care Bears. At first I couldn't remember who Boo Boo Bear was, until N explained that he was the Yogi's younger sidekick. A less annoying Scrappy-Doo, you could say. (Now do you remember?)

We tossed around the obvious question, "If you could be a cartoon bear, who would you be?" I chose Yogi, N chose Winnie. We reminisced about favorite episodes; I told her about my Care Bear sticker collection. She told me about her Winnie the Pooh lunch box. It was a fun way for N to kill the hour's drive home.

But then our conversation turned serious. After a short but noticeable pause, N shared with me a thought she'd kept secret a long time. I held my breath as I listened. I was shocked but not surprised that we actually had the same dirty little secret. The same thought we both agonized about, yet ashamed to share with anyone.

But not anymore.

So now I ask the very same question that stole the innocence of N's and my childhood. The question that has plagued us, crippled us, tortured us. Reader, I ask you:

Why don't these friggin' bears wear any knickers?

Sun Shiny

Today was the first sunny day in weeks. Like a Swede on the first day of spring, I stepped out of the house and sat outside for a while. Let the sun hit my face, like a newborn baby getting her vitamin D for the day.

The sky was blue, the clouds were thin, featherlike. The French would say fantastique.

With the climate almost always constant in Manila, people don't usually pay attention to the weather. It's mostly hot hot hot hot, some occational rain between June and August, then hot hot hot hot hot again. This year though, the occasional rain turned out to be back to back to back typhoons. The last three weeks have been one rainy day after another and the sun was much missed.

I was glad to be out and about on this sunny day.

1 Down

My tailor, Mang Tony came by today to deliver the rest of my suits. I now have enough suits to make a respectable first impression at my new office. At least in the sartorial sense, that is.

I still have a bunch of other errands I need to run before I go. Get glasses fixed, buy contacts, buy meds, get medical for f*ing POEA requirements. Buy the steamer, maybe the bike.

Now if I can just get out of the house. I've been so lazy. With a good book and two square meals who really needs/wants to get out of the house.

Then there's the rain. Please don't get me started on this rain.

Corny But True

You Are A Martini

You are the kind of drinker who appreciates a nice hard drink. And for you, only quality alcohol. You don't waste your time on the cheap stuff. Obviously, you're usually found with a martini in your hand. But sometimes you mix it up with a gin and tonic. And you'd never, ever consider one of those flavored martinis. They're hardly a drink!

What Alcoholic Drink Are You?

Forgive the kabaduyan, but the results for this test are actually accurate.

I Don't Watch TV, Really

I've been home now 8 weeks, and in those 56 days, I think I've watched a total of half an hour of TV a day. News mostly.

I stopped watching TV when I moved to New York in August 2002. When I moved into my broom closet, este, graduate student housing, I was too poor to buy myself a new TV. The choice was a new TV set or booze for two months. You can guess how I chose.

At first having no TV seemed strange. For starters, I didn't get the news. So I started listening to public radio and have been an NPR fan since then. I discovered a whole new world with NPR and fell in love with it instantly. Recently, I went crazy happy when a friend told me about their podcasts.

To pass the time one would ordinarily use up watching TV, I would read. By the time I left New York, I had a balikbayan box of books.

And I watched movies! Lots and lots of movies. I was on Netflix and being a true Pinoy, would return discs immediately to maximize disc turn-over and reduce overall rental fees. At my peak I was going through almost a dozen movies a week.

Back home and four years later (with TV's in almost every room), I still feel no desire to watch TV. It still feels funny at times when you're at a dinner party and everyone is talking about the latest show. I smile and shrug my shoulders. "No, haven't seen that one."

So tonight I blog, read, drink Bio Fit, send SMS messages to friends, and not wonder what's on TV.

Bio Fit

S. bought me a package of Bio Fit tea bags the other week. She threw the package into the basket at the check-out counter just as she was ringing up her own motherload of Bio Fit.

"Try it. You'll love it." she said.

I asked, "Are they addictive?" "Will I get hooked on the stuff?" "If I start on it, will I be unable to go the bathroom unaided?" (Reader, I apologize for the indelicacy of this blog, but this is what is on my mind right now. And yes, S. and I really talk this way.)

As you have probably figured out by now, Bio Fit is a "cleansing" tea. It's supposed to supplement any weight loss program you're on. (I hope it supplements my sleep-all-day regimen.) Made from Senna leaves and pods (100% natural, at least that's what the label says), Bio Fit flushes out unwanted fats and toxins from the body (again, from the label).

As I write out this post, my very first Bio Fit tea bag is seeping. The directions say: let it seep for 10-15 minutes.

And time is up.

Say It, Say It

When I was a kid my mom would point at flowers and say their names out loud.

"This is Adelfa." she said one day as we walked around my grandmother's garden.

"Bandera Espanola."

"Dona Aurora."

Now throughout these exercises I would mutely look at her and then the flower. I probably would nod, or raise my eyebrows as I cock my head to one side to indicate recognition, but I would never say anything. I wasn't being belligerent. I was being 6.

Invariably my mom would take me by the shoulders gently and say, "Say it." She wanted me to say the names of the flowers out loud, in what I suppose she thought was an effective pedagogical technique.

"Say it."

"Say it."

And eventually, I would come around. Turn away from her and mumble a sound I thought mimicked the name I just heard.

Last night I was chatting with someone. I'd been wanting to tell this person so many things since we met again. I could hear an imaginary voice in my head that was egging me on.

"Say it."

"Say it."

And so I did. Well, I sort of did.