Year in review: 2006

I will remember 2006 as the year I left the Perm, moved to Hong Kong and joined the Firm. It was the year I started a blog, got my heart broken, bought Tumi luggage (not necessarily in that order). It was the year I started going to the gym, the year I stopped.

In 2006 I went on a long vacation. I did not know how lucky I was to have that break until it was over. It was the year I watched too many movies and read too few books. It was the year I gained a whole lot of weight, lost more and gained most of it back.

2006 was a year of personal success and personal disappointment. It was the year I got all those cool stamps on my passport.

As I wrap up my 31st year, I look back at the last 12 months and smile.

It was a good year. It was a pretty damn good year.

Sgaling

MD. and M4 have created a new way to express superlatives in Tagalog.

They (and now I) add an "s" to all adjectives.

"S" stands for sakasakan.

Mayaman is smayaman.

Pogi = spogi.

And my personal favorite: spanget.

Before you dismiss this as another inane idea, give it a chance. Think about it. What is the English equivalent of spanget?

Fugly, right?

Well then, which term do you think evokes a more grotesque image?

Diba hands down spanget?!

Bow.

Certified

A good friend of mine once asked a guy who was breaking up with her if she had done everything in her power to save their fledgling relationship. Like most normal people, her future ex-boyfriend avoided such a direct question and said that he just wanted to move on.

She responded with, "But I need to certify that I've done everything I can."

Annoyed he replied, "Ok, fine. I certify that you've done everything you can. Can we get on with our lives now?"

I'm not sure if he said the second sentence, I'm embellishing, but he did say the certify part and that's the part I want to write about. (Aside: he was a bastard to say that, but it was the only way to get through to this friend of mine.)

It's funny how we girls over-analyze everything remotely related with romance and will accept nothing short of a "certification" when it comes to potential, current or former significant others. S., E., and D., have spent thousands of hours dissecting each sentence spoken by the guys they were dating. Every word. It was a treat to just listen to them.

"When he said that my top was cute, did he mean cute in a nice way, or cute in a slutty way?"

"When he said that he was thinking about marriage, did he mean a) marriage to me and b) within this year?"

"When he left the party early, does that mean that he doesn't find me interesting?"

I would respond to these questions in the most prudent, cautious way (without actually lying) but invariably, they will disagree with me, and ask the question again. And again. And then another time.

The entire exercise is very first year high school.

We're in our thirties.

I love it.

x x x

So last night (actually early this morning) I got certified. I now know something with certainty.

And it is liberating.

You can never come home

With each visit to Manila I am reminded that I don't live here anymore.

There are boxes in my room now, where there used to be small heaps of clothing, mountains of books, towers of DVDs. My car is as clean as a whistle. No four day old coffee cups, shopping bags and gas receipts carpetting the floor.

Everyday I need to do "something". Renew my license, see the derma, then the dentist, go to the spa. I like how positive emotions about Manila are reinforced by having dinner with friends and family every night, but everything seems so artificial. Like those gatherings were planned weeks before (and actually, they were).

I am annoyed at everyday, natural occurences (ie ants attacking unattended candy, cat poo stinking up the garden). I am troubled by the poverty, repelled by the filth, bothered by the lack of infrastructure.

I've been away 4 months. Imagine how removed I will feel in 4 years.

Keeping it real

I have decided to make a New Year's Resolution/To Do list. And unlike lists of other people, I'm keeping my goals to realistic, achievable targets. Here's what I've come up with.

1. I will never eat again.
2. I will work out everyday for 90 minutes.
3. I will read a book a week. (And not buy a single book until I finsh what's in my current library of unread literary works.)
4. I will watch all those movies I've bought. (And not buy a single DVD until I've watched them all.)
5. I will read the Bible from beginning to end.
6. I will never forget anything again.
7. I will travel to South America.
8. I will get so fit from my 90 minute work outs that I will run a mini marathon (20k). See, I am being very realistic. I could have said I'd run in the NY marathon in October.
9. I will invest my money wisely and know exactly where every cent goes.
10. I will be the paragon of humility and patience.

I'll keep you guys updated with my progress.

On Flaking

I am a classic flaker.

I will make plans to go on that Bora getaway, accept the invitation to that dinner party, text back, "Sure!" to the question of "Drinks later?"

Then when the time comes, I flake.

Something has come up. Can't get out of work right now. I'm not feeling too well. I'll be in Singapore that weekend. Super traffic and that place is all the way across town. I have a family dinner.

I've used up all the excuses in the book and my friends are tired of it. I am tired of it. I should just say no when I have the chance. Or use the Filipino favorite, "I'll try to follow."

But no, I keep on saying yes, then I keep on flaking.

I flake because fundamentally, I'd rather be doing something else. I choose to flake. And that's the painful honest truth about flaking. It's never circumstance (although I say it is), it's always me.

My friends have long known how to interpret my affirmative responses to invitations. Jona saying yes means she heard you, made a note of the event, but that yes is not a confirmation of attendance, it's simply an acknowledgement. Like 10-4 or Copy That.

Recently, I've had the yucky (see how articulate I am) experience of being on the receiving end of flaky behavior. Instead of being the "flaker" I was the "flakee".

Being the flakee sucks (again, note my facility with words). You look forward to seeing that someone, attending that dinner, having that drink. You get all excited then someone flakes on you. And you feel so disappointed.

Today I got flaked on by that someone again.

Maybe I should just get with the program: Flaking is a choice. And the choice is not me.

These monks can kick ass!

Really, why does anyone bother to blog? Just copy and paste the news, people. It's so much more interesting than real life.

THESSALONIKI, Greece (AP) -- Two groups of monks clashed on Wednesday at a monastery facility in Mt. Athos, resulting in at least seven injuries, police said.

Fighting broke out between a group of rebel monks occupying facilities of the 1,000-year-old monastery of Esphigmenou, and a group of legally recognized monks on the outside.

The rebel monks, unrecognized by the Orthodox Church, reacted strongly when the outsiders attempted to force their way into the monastery's representative offices in Karyes, the administrative center of the medieval community. They were trying to enter in order to begin construction of a new building.

The clashes turned violent as the occupying monks attacked the intruders with crowbars and fire extinguishers, breaking a door down.

Seven monks were reported injured. Four were taken off the peninsula by boat and hospitalized at Polygiros, including two with head wounds, while three more were being taken to hospital, according to Athos police

.

After reading this article I thought, "I bet I can say Thessaloniki ten times really fast....No, I should try Esphigmenou, it would sound funnier."

And then I thought, "There are fire extinguishers and crowbars in monastaries?"

When God opens a door, He closes a window

BEIJING, China (AP) -- China is imposing new restrictions on foreign adoptions, barring applicants who are unmarried, obese, over 50 or who take antidepressants, according to U.S. adoption agencies.

The restrictions are meant to limit adoptions to "only the most qualified families," said the Web site of one agency, Harrah's Adoption International Mission in Spring, Texas.

The agency said China has pledged to try to make more children available to those who qualify.
The move comes amid a surge in foreign applications to adopt Chinese children. The United States is the No. 1 destination for children adopted abroad, but the number going to Europe and elsewhere is rising.

An employee of the government-run China Center of Adoption Affairs, the agency that oversees foreign adoptions, said it has issued new guidelines but refused to confirm the details released by the American agencies. He wouldn't give his name.

A U.S. Embassy spokesman in Beijing said it was looking into reports of the new regulations. He spoke on condition of anonymity in line with embassy rules.

Americans adopted 7,906 children from China in 2005, raising the total since 1989 to 48,504, according to the Joint Council on International Children's Services in Alexandria, Virginia, an association of adoption agencies and parents' groups.

Another industry opens up for me

MILAN, Italy (Reuters) -- The Italian fashion capital Milan has formally barred ultra-skinny and under-age models ahead of its February catwalk shows, as the fashion world comes under pressure to promote a healthier image.

The agreement signed on Monday between the city and its powerful fashion industry bans models under 16 and those with a body mass index of less than 18.5 from Milan's shows.

The accord also includes courses on healthy eating and exercise and calls for a variety of clothing sizes in shows.

"The agreement is the result of a common effort ... to share and to communicate to our young people the importance of positive models of living," Milan mayor Letizia Moratti said in a statement.

Body mass index is the ratio of weight to the square of height -- so that a 1.73-meter (5 foot 8 inch) model who weighed less than 55.4 kg (122 lb) would be barred.

The accord is broadly in line with a manifesto issued by the national government and Italy's fashion chiefs on Saturday, and due to be signed this week.

Stalking is not a strong point

I am a very bad stalker.

First, I get caught a lot. Good stalkers are supposed to remain under the radar. They stay unnoticed until they reveal themselves in some dramatic fashion. I get caught.

Second, I'm super obvious and can't lie about it. Good stalkers are supposed to be cool, calm and collected. When my stalking activities are brought to my attention, I stammer, get shifty-eyed and sweat profusely.

Third, I don't really do anything and rate poorly in the creepy scale. So I cyber-snoop. So what? I don't do anything with the information I acquire. I don't talk to people about what I know. I keep things to myself. And if the objects of my attention get to know me, they'll discover that I'm really not creepy at all. Some people say I'm actually funny.

Maybe being a bad stalker means I'm a good person. Who knows.

Blind Spots

"How can someone so smart be so stupid!" S. yelled into the phone this afternoon. I had to move the receiver away from my ear.

Ok, fine. I admit it. I have a blind spot. On something. And as the formula of my posts go, it doesn't matter what. I want to dissect the phenomenon of having a blind spot.

If you observe any outwardly intelligent and rational person, you will find, almost invariably, a blind spot. I'm talking about a peculiarity of character -- it could be an interest, a hobby, an obsession, a belief -- that does not quite gel with the outward stability and maturity one exhibits.

Take my sister for example. Super smart doctor; people have called her a genius (and she is). She likes dancing Santa Clauses. At my last count, she owned 3.

TC., good friend of my mothers, is a shrewd businesswoman. Built her own business from scratch. She believes dwarfs exist and that they have mystical powers.

R., a partner at my old firm and C., a partner at my new firm are both highly regarded and widely respected in their respective areas of expertise. Both cannot go 30 seconds in a conversation without talking about themselves.

A. is a 37 year old attorney. A. likes collecting action figures and puts them up on display at home.

I'm sure you get it.

Now the difference between me and the rest of the world is that I recognize my blind spot. So in a sense, I am not blind to my blind spot. I know it exists. But still I can't help myself. Like an 8 year old with a hang nail, I pick on it until it bleeds or like today, until it gets me into trouble. Well, not real trouble. Comical fustian trouble. The trouble I like the best. And that's why S. was yelling at me.

I've asked myself countless of times why I keep indulging in my blind spot. I know it's stupid. And without any shred of meaning or purpose (much like pornography: it is without any redeeming artistic or social quality) but I keep at it.

I keep at it because it makes my heart beat a little faster for a little while. It makes me lightheaded. It makes me smile, think of funny things. It makes me remember who I am.

A really smart person, but with a blind spot.

Food association

Whenever I eat anything, I remember something.

When I prepare and eat a pan fried steak, I think of my sister. She loves making those for herself.

When I have cotton candy or kropek, I think of the pathetic (but oh so much fun) street fairs (perya) my Dad would bring me and my sister to when we were young.

When I eat oysters on a half shell, I think of summers in Iloilo.

When I have a hotdog, I think of those early days of fall in NY when I just got there and kept converting everything into Pesos and didn't want to spend more than a dollar fifty a meal.

When I have foie gras I think of Chum and her crazy idea to raise a goose, fatten it, and send it to the slaughterhouse.

When I eat sisig, I think of Patrick's. The seedy bar me and my friends used to go in college. Then I start thinking of Esperanto, the bar we frequented (i.e. lived in) during law school. Sisig was good there too.

Ham makes me think of Christmas. Galantina my father's birthday. Corn dogs my birthday. Pancit means good news. Somehow we always have pancit to celebrate.

Red wine makes me think of Cheese and Cheers at the Perm. San Mig light reminds me of those random evenings N. and I would hit JG for dinner and drinks. He never refused.

Pancit palabok from Red Ribbon makes me think of my Grandmother. And sometimes I'd go and have some just to think of her.

Sobrang Sad

I have a playlist in my iPod called Sobrang Sad.

It has among other depressing songs, George Michaels's version of "I Can't Make You Love Me" as well as "Love Will Come to You" by the Indigo Girls.

I don't know what it is about sad songs. But they seem to hit you harder than the sweetest of love songs. They stir sharp memories. Sometimes, when you listen to them at just the right moment, you feel a distinct pain in your chest or you cry. Not to sound like I'm stating the obvious, but sad songs make us sad. And that's why we love them.

We love sad movies too. Tell me you didn't like "Dying Young", "Empire of the Sun" "Awekenings", or "Glory". All these movies made me cry, and I enjoyed every one of them. Oh my God, remember "Sommersby"?! Tragic. Loved it.

And sad books. "Waiting" by Ha Jin and Arundhati Roy's "The God of All Things" made me want to flail my arms like a widow in mourning. I felt my heart was pulled out by some force, then when I felt the pit in my chest, it was shoved back in. Ow. But each time I read a book or a story with a melancholic tone, I want to feel that hollow sadness again. [Aside: I read "Interpreter of Maladies" again over lunch today. It was gut (not heart) wrenching. So good.]

Maybe liking sad songs or sad movies is a good thing. It enables us to experience the emotion of sadness, without having to go through something traumatic.

Like a rollercoaster is to fear.

Best Movie of the Year

Watch Paris Je'taime.

It is brilliant.

I won't say much apart from it's a collection of 18 shorts all set in Paris.

It works.

It is un-f*cking-believable.

Watch Paris Je'taime; thank me later.

I therefore conclude....

Look into any window shop of any clothing retailer in HK and you will see the same thing: winter garb, and the hordes of HK residents buying them.

This scares the bejeezus out of me. Apart from the biker jacket (that can only be worn on weekends) I have no winter clothes. Sure I brought the random sweater and my trusty pack of sandos (layering is key), but I don't have Monster's wardrobe of outerwear.

So what do I do when faced with the possiblity of freezing my ass off the next month or so? Well, first I panicked slightly. Then, when the shortness of breath and sweaty palms went away, I decided to conduct an experiment. A test to see (a) how cold it really gets in HK and (b) if there is any basis for all the fuss about winter clothing.

My experiment was both research and trial based. First, research. I went on-line and found historical weather patterns for the last 5 years in HK. According to the material I found, the average temperature in December and January is anywhere between 8-12 centigrage. Ok, not so bad. That's in the high 40's - low 50's for you Americans.

Next, trial. Each trial involved three parts. First I checked the weather before going out. Then I doned what I believed was appropriate outerwear for such temperature and weather condition. And then finally, I observed what the other locals wore to see if they were wearing more or less the same type of apparel. I planned trials to last for a week. It's Day 3 and I have my answer.

The short answer: malamigin ang mga Intsik (Use of the term not meant to be pejorative, but merely descriptive of the mongoloid race.)

First, it's not that cold. It's suit jacket weather. You can actually walk around in a long sleeved shirt (with sando). And if it gets colder (it's 12c now, and the lowest it can go is around 8c) a scarf will do just fine.

Second, you should take a look at what the good people of HK are wearing: knee high boots, mufflers, down jackets, layers upon layers of outerwear. All at 12c! Imagine what they'll be wearing at 8c.

I wouldn't be surprised if they hauled around igloos and went around in dog sleds.

I hate you, Mr. Yates

I read "Oh Joseph, I'm So Tired" over lunch today. After I put the story down I cursed Richard Yates. I cursed him because he showed me, in less than half an hour how a short story should be written. How words should flow efforlessly but deliberately, how a story arc should be developed, how charcters should be revealed, how to show off by criss crossing through time to keep the reader engaged.

He showed me what a complete and utter putz I am.

I think reading a well written piece of anything is like engaging in a sport I am moderately proficient at with an Olympic champion. Sure I play badminton, I think I'm pretty good actually, better than the next guy. Most guys, even. Then I play with someone who's a genius. Someone who understands the game so well, it's like he's dancing.

To watch someone do that, to be able to read something that good, will make you simultaenously want to cry, tear your hair out, embrace the author, and then burn everything you've ever written. Hay. (In moments like this, I lose the facility of speech.)

I've asked myself why I bother writing anything out if won't read like something Mr. Yates has done. I know this is being highly presumptive of me, but read his work. It's so simple, so heartbreakingly uncomplicated, it's as if an imaginative 12 year old (with a good vocabulary) wrote it. The images are so clear. Hay.

Which is absolutely not the case, I know. To be able to write like that, in clear crisp sentences, you need to be more than good, you need a gift. You need this intagible, indescribable natural facility with words. To know precisely what to say and when and how. What I would do to be able to do that.

I'm just an imaginative 31 year old with a good vocabulary.

Nobody knows

Grey's Anatomy opens with Psapp's "Nobody knows". The chorus goes, "Nobody knows where they might end up."

If someone told me this time last year that I'd be out of the The Perm, based in Hong Kong and working for The Firm, I'd tell that someone that he or she was a fool.

The Firm doesn't hire from Manila. They hire from New York. I had my chance at BigLaw after the LL.M. but the market was bad; there were no jobs so I went back home. No problem. Life is like that. You roll with the punches.

But as it turned out, they did hire from Manila. They hired the kid with the 3 year old LL.M. and a dusty framed certificate from the NY bar tucked in her closet.

So now I sit in an over-priced apartment watching DVDs and eating ice cream.

Nobody knows.

Some people have kids...

Google "involuntary retching" and see what you get.

OMG. I have left a permanent ink blot on the world wide web.

OMG.

OMG!

I am SO happy.

Conversations with Dad

An exerpt from yesterday's chat with Dad. Text from the exerpt has not been edited.

Dad: the other day at the Pana party i was saying hello and merry christmas to a lot of faces whose names i cant remember and whose name tags i couldnt read

Dad: masaya

Jona: that's sort of how i felt last night. didn't know half the people there.

Jona: and no one really says merry christmas

Jona: it's all really awkward. since you're having a christmas party with buddhists and jews

Dad: what do they say kung hei fat choy

Jona: haha. they would if it were new year's

Dad: the safe greeting is joy to the world

Jona: i will keep that in mind

Dad: except people will think you are really weird

Jona: that is one downside, yes

Who gives a sh*t about the Russian spy?

Is it just me or are all you sick and tired of the Russian spy story?

I really don't care if he was poisoned, if he was poisoned with radioactive material, if he had ties to the mob, if he was a blackmailer, or if he was trying to take down Putin.

It is so annoying that he gets so much airtime on CNN. What about Britney Spears going arround town with no undies on? What about Paris going after Lindsay's man? What about these more pressing, more interesting issues?

Someone hand me a real newspaper. Someone hand me a People magazine. And if you don't have it, an US Weekly will just have to do.

The Office Christmas Party

Call me crazy, but I actually like office Christmas parties. (How can anyone not like free booze?)

My first office Christmas party was in December 1999. I had just started working for the Perm and my law school buddy BY (then a third year Associate) invited me for pre-dinner drinks at the hotel bar before the party.

I met Chum that night, so maybe that's why I think of office holiday parties fondly. (Nah, it's the free booze.)

Last night was The Firm's Christmas party. Remember that until September I had worked only for the Perm. That my only concept of Xmas parties was that of the Perm's annual loriat dinners at the Shang Makati.

Dig this: The Firm's Christmas party is not much different. There's not as much food (limited amounts of Thai/Vietnamese cuisine), you're not at a hotel (you're at a rinky dink restaurant at Lan Kwai Fong), and the staff actually mingle, sit and eat with the lawyers (instead of those two groups sitting on opposite sides of a huge hall). Ok so far I am not making the case for the identical Chirstmas party theory.

There was a lot of booze. A lot of people got hammered. And I stood there watching the whole thing like it was a science project. "How do Chinese people get drunk? A comprehensive examination of Asian drinking patterns and behavior." (Trivia: They play this game similar to rock paper scissors. But with head movements. Loser takes a shot. How novel.)

You wouldn't have guessed, but I don't like drinking parties (particularly those with lots of people I hardly know). These parties are loud, people don't make sense, everyone is making passes at everyone else. I like intimate gatherings where the 5 of you drink 9 bottles of wine (I actually did this with friends in law school). I also enjoy a drink with a total stranger where you can just bullshit each other to kingdom come, but please, only one total stranger at a time. Not 24 rip roaring drunk Chinese people.

At the stroke of midnight my colleagues decided to go someplace else. I did too. They went to Wan Chai for karaoke and I went home.

In the 2.5 minute cab ride back to my flat I thought, "That wasn't too bad. Libre toma."

Waiting for something

I saw Godot, asan ka? back in college.

[Aside: my spoken Tagalog sucks, but I can read and understand the deepest Tagalog as well as any Iglesia ni Kristo preacher. I know what the words mean; I just can't remember (or pronounce) them.]

I'm thinking about the play because I'm waiting. I'm waiting for something to happen (and/or for something not to happen) in 13 weeks. Two months and a week. Approximately 65 days.

Sometime in February. There. I did the math for you.

No, I'm not pregnant with a puppy. And no, I'm not waiting for someone to give me a Valentine's Day card. It doesn't matter what I'm waiting for; if you haven't figured it out by now, I want to dissect the act of waiting.

Anyone who's watched Godot has done just this (this and question the meaning of everything). What is it with waiting? The expectation, the hope, the frustration, the excitement, the ultimate let down all rolled into one.

It is excrutiating, it is exhilirating. And for those few moments when you cannot breathe in anticipation, it is in a way, exquisite.

Being a little bit more (ok, a lot more) obsessive than the next guy, when I wait I start making up story lines. I visualize what I think will happen and then I play the scene out in my head. What he's going to say, how she responds, how I stand there and say nothing. I can go on like this for hours. I will fall into a dream-like state I will actually write the screen play out of an event I know will happen. Complete with blocking. Then I change my mind, something else will happen. He won't show up, she'll get upset, I start to yell. It's like a second ending on a DVD special edition. But for a part of my life that is yet to be lived.

Tonight I'm getting fixated over this thing again. Whatever it is. I actually got out of bed to write this post out. When I get this way I need to talk things out. Analyze everything to the last painful detail. Usually, S. indulges me and actually listens as I go through my list of what-can-happen.

But last time I looked, I moved to Hong Kong, S. is in Sampaloc and I'm too cheap to call long distance.

So I write.

And it's working; I'm getting sleepy.

Taking care of me

I hated it in New York, I hate it now.

I hate taking care of me.

Jona needs to be fed twice a day, needs a daily dose of caffeine, needs to be brought to the office, brought back home. Someone needs to get her that French shampoo she likes. The Chinese beer she will want at the most random of hours. She needs someone to balance the checkbook, someone to talk to building administration. She needs someone to buy her groceries, pick up her laundry, buy her rice from that place down the street. She needs someone to plan her vacations, make dentist appointments, spa reservations. Someone needs to constantly (and I mean constantly) engage her mind.

In Manila, L. cooked, MA. did the laundry, E. drove me around. Mom handled the money, the groceries. R. got me dinner and spa reservations. I had dozens of friends to keep me entertained (M4 and MD alone could keep me on my toes for hours.)

Now it's all up to me. It is exhausting.

I hate taking care of Jona.

No heat

My apartment has no heat.

With what I pay in rent, I can get a 4 bedroom 3 bath brownstone on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

My apartment has no heat.

I can buy a small plot of land in Cavite every month with what I pay in rent.

My apartment has no heat.

I brought this unfortunate fact up with Ate M. (the font of all Hong Kong related information) and she responded in her usual cool and collected manner, "Oh, there's really no heating in Hong Kong. None of the buildings are heated. You need to buy space heaters."

My apartment has no heat, so I need to buy space heaters.

(Not so) Trivial Pursuits

Some time ago, A. suggested something similar to Googgling yourself: IMDB yourself. You'll be surpised how many movies and TV producers you share your name with. Sounds geeky (and really, it is, but it's cool way to waste a couple of minutes.)

Well, here's another one: Google Image yourself. Here's just a sample of what I got:




Saya, diba?

The one thing I miss the most

I miss my car. I really really miss my car.

I miss the mobility. I never really went anywhere, but just knowing I could, at any time, just pack up and drive to Davao by ro-ro, that made me feel free.

Also, the damn car was SO COOL. I drove a Ford Escape and while it was rarely the best car on the lot, it was almost always the coolest one. There's a lot of pride (read: teenage self-satisfaction) about having the coolest car in the lot (at 30). Even if the lot is just the tiny basement of your office building.

I miss the sound the doors makes when I hit the lock button 18 times before I leave it. I miss the 14 built-in cupholders (how many cupholders does one need? A lot, apparently). I miss looking at the rear view mirror and seeing the CU sticker which always makes me think of New York for a second.

God I miss my car.

The cure for hangovers

I haven’t had a hangover in a long time. I have one now. It is a mild hangover, but it is nonetheless annoying. It’s like there’s an invisible hand putting pressure on the upper portion of my brain. It’s not painful, but it is irritating. I can’t function. (Well, actually I can. I’m just uncomfortable. And cranky.)

I’ve had more than my share of hangovers. In law school, Sunday was hangover day. I could tell what day it was by recalling the involuntary retching I experienced on the Lord’s day of rest and summoning up the smell of vomit. If I could hardly remember the muscle spasms and the bathroom smelled like pine dew, it was probably a Thursday or a Friday.

I don’t know why people keep drinking after they’ve gone through a really bad hangover. I’m talking about the hangover you get when you fall asleep with the ceiling spinning. Waking up in the middle of the night to throw up (some times not making it to the bathroom). You feel a little better, but now you have headache. Finally, you fall asleep, but only after you give in to the headache, the dizziness, the dryness in your mouth.

You wake up four hours later (it’s always four hours for me, I don’t know why) and then things really start to get rough. The retching starts. The involuntary-is-there-an-alien-in my-gut retching. Your whole body heaves. There is nothing to vomit though (except for the bitter tasting yellow bile you seem to have an endless supply of). It’s all gone. Remember the pre-dawn hurl? Apparently your body does not.

The spasms stop. You take a sip of water, the dehydration is awful. Your mouth is chalky, your head is throbbing. Everything is too bright and too loud. You sit on the cold bathroom floor with your eyes closed and think, “I will never drink again. I will never drink again. It’s not worth it. Kalokohan.”

Generations have tried to tout hangover solutions. I’ve heard of the take two aspirin before you sleep method. This works, but it might kill you if you get an allergic reaction to the aspirin or the paracetamol or whatever it is you mix with the alcohol. You pass out from the booze, then you stop breathing. Saya.

Then there’s the “dog’s hair” approach. Have a drink in the morning. It will take the edge off. And it does. And then you turn into an alcoholic. Masaya rin ito.

There’s the bloody mary (or insert some other bizarre concoction here) in the morning. All these potions have two things in common. All taste like crap. And none of them work.

From my extensive experience in dealing with hangovers, I have concluded that there is only one cure for hangovers. A cure that is 100% effective. That cure is time. If you wait long enough, the hangover will go away. It always does.

The hand on my brain will let go, and with it, the curtain of sluggish thinking and hand eye coordination will lift. I will feel great.

So great I will want to celebrate by having a beer.

DVD Marathon Mania

What is it with these DVD compilations of TV series? Why are they so addictive? To paraphrase that ad for potato chips in the 90's, you can't watch just one episode. You need to watch 3-4 at a time, even if it costs you half a night's sleep.

My first run-in with these box sets was with Sopranos, then Sex In the City. Now you see I'm a hardcore Sopranos and SITC fan, so buying the sets (in the original) made sense. I would watch my favorite episodes over and over (There's this episode in Season 2 of SITC when Carrie breaks up with Mr. Big. I cry everytime I see it. Everytime.)

With the technology of piracy advancing, "box sets" aren't in boxes anymore. And neither are they "sets". I watched the first two seasons of Entourage from a single disc. These compilations are getting so cheap (Entourage cost me PhP65) and so good (not a single episode skipped), it feels like such a waste not to have the complete second season of Magnum P.I.

And you end up watching things you were originally only mildly interested in (i.e. Entourage). That's 10 hours of my life I'm not getting back, but last weekend I felt I would just die I didn't know if Vince would get to play Aquaman. (He does!)

Amazing how media develops to suit our ever increasing demands for immediate and accelerated entertainment.

Remember when we actually had to wait for every Tuesday to watch episodes of the A-Team?

Statistician's Wet Dream

I have a site meter embedded in this blog. It not only tracks site traffic, it predicts site traffic and generates all sorts of charts and graphs for me to better know my audience. I know how long the average visit is to my site are (38 seconds). And the days with the highest traffic (Sundays).

Every week the guys who run the site meter send me detailed reports: entry pages, exit pages, reference pages, number of pages viewed per visit. To think I've only told exactly 5 people about this site. And of the 5, only 3 read it regularly. (Thank you Monster, g-r, and A!)

I have regular anonymous readers. There's someone in Canada, another in Benguet who click in every couple of days. Hello person from Canada and person from Benguet. You are readers 6 and 7.

According to my trusty site meter, given the traffic over the last week, I will get over 350 hits next month. About 100 of them will be my own.

Google gets tens of millions of hits a day.

God I can feel the money from the ads pouring in.