Erratum

I know, I know. There are dozens of typos and errors in usage in this blog. I think fast, type even faster and so my punctuation and usage sometimes most often falters.

As for my spelling... my spelling really sucks. It has nothing to do with the speed at which I think or type.

I realize the problem, readers. And I strive to improve myself. For something like this, knowing you have a problem is half the battle (not unlike alcoholism).

And so I re-read the blog and proof for typos and whatnot. I tighten sentences here and there while I'm at it. Usually a post goes up twice or three times, before all most of the errors are corrected.

Bear with me, W.I.M. I'm on the case.

You can't make this stuff up

I have to admit I was deeply saddened by this news of Anna Nicole Smith's untimely death. She was a real character and her passing gives people less to talk about while having their hair permed. Well, for a couple of weeks her passing will really give some people something to talk about. But on the long term, less.

There are many things I liked about her. First she had that three name thing going on. Who is Anna Smith? Who is Nicole Smith? But we all know who Anna Nicole Smith is.

Then there were those shamlessly fake boobs, hair, nails and skin color. She showed the world that artificial beauty is beauty nonetheless.

She did what all women secretly want to do: marry an old man for money. Marrying a guy your age for money is just tragic. That's a whole lifetime of regret and quasi-prostitution. Marry an old geezer worth a billion dollars who does you the favor of croaking in 14 months, that's a love story.

Her life was like a good soap opera or a bad Sidney Sheldon novel:

She was born in a small town outside Dallas and was raised by a single mom. At 17, while working as a waitress at Jim's Krispy Fried Chicken in Mexia, she met Billy Wayne Smith (note the three name thing again), the short-order cook at the restaurant. They married and had a son. They divorced within a year and Anna Nicole supported herself and her son by stripping becoming an exotic dancer. She worked hard and in the end she came out on top (pun intended). She became a Playboy Playmate.

More than 20 years after her son is born she gives birth in the Bahamas to a daughter she names Hope. A few days after the child's birth, the grown son visits Anna Nicole and Hope in the hospital. He dies in Anna Nicole's hospital room from what would be discovered as a lethal combination of Zoloft, Lexapro and methadone.

Two weeks after her son's demise Anna Nicole weds lawyer Howard Stern (his real name, but not the shock jock) on a boat. Well, not really weds. A commitment ceremony of sorts.

Less than 6 months later, she will be found dead in a hotel room in Florida.

I wonder who will play her in the Movie of the Week special.

You know when you're in a Filipino wake when...

1. There's lots of Zesto. Exactly when Zesto became the juice drink of choice for wakes, we will never know. But the fact remains that Zesto has cornered the wake market.

2. The flower arrangements are horrendous. I don't know why some enterprising Chinoy hasn't put up a flower shop that sells non-tacky funeral wreaths. And why do flower shops insist on using glitter and gaudy ribbons to let people know who wasted their money to purchase such incredibly ugly arrangements? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

3. There's enough food to feed a private army. Grieving family members greet visitors with the question, "Have you eaten?" As if people go to wakes to have dinner. At one wake I was at a couple of years ago, there were actually waiters serving full course meals.

4. Complete strangers come to visit. I consider wakes and funerals to be very private family affairs. Unfortunately, in the Philippines, when word gets out that someone has died, his/her tailor's third cousin usually shows up to "pay their respects". Why people go to wakes of those they hardly know I will never understand. The male parental unit says it's to show support for the grieving family members. While that may be true, why do these strangers need to look at the body with a sadness like they've lost their right foot to gangrene. Get over yourselves. You did not know the deceased.

5. Snacks are passed around at hourly intervals. In case you did not partake of the full course meal, snacks are distributed every 60 minutes. Mamon, ensaymada, hard candies, and of course, Zesto.

6. Mass cards are displayed. Because really, we want to know which set of cloistered nuns are praying for the deceased's soul. And how often and for how long they will pray.

7. The more masses, the merrier. Because one mass a day won't get you through the pearly gates.

8. People don't talk about the dead guy in the room. Of the conversations that go on during wakes, about 5% are about the deceased. 95% are about everything else. At the wake I was at last night, there was a guy obsessed about squatters and convinced Gawad Kalinga had to take over the Philippine housing shortage. Show some respect, people.

9. Guests never leave. Why people want to sit in a room with stinky flowers (I'm not going for the obvious here) for hours and hours I will never understand. Letting a friend know you're there for them should take about an hour, max.

Full circle

I am a creature of habit and routine. I get up at the same time every morning without an alarm clock. I sleep at the same time. I have a routine when I get up, work, have lunch, leave the office, get home.

I like sticking to a schedule. It relaxes me. There's something satisfying about knowing what comes next. It's like watching a movie you've seen before. Re-reading Shakespeare.

But then sometimes you need to travel, and your routines run out of whack. You get up in a hotel room, go to a place you've never been before, meet new people, discuss new things. You don't know what lunch is until lunch time. You don't know when the day will end, what you will be doing in 3 hours.

I get antsy when breaking my routine. I feel like I'm missing out on something. I am constantly thinking of what other thing I should be doing; what the routine says I should be doing.

But after a few days I let go, and living outside of the routine is a pleasant, sometimes wonderful experience. You respond to things as they occur, not by anticipating the inevitable. You examine things for the first time and then put them aside for yet other things. Everything is new and stimulating. You think of so many things at once, not enough to have a meaningful insight about any one thing, but it does not matter. You're on the go.

And when you get that way, when you're gliding over things and not paying attention to detail, your natural reaction is to stop.

You stop and delve into things and inquire. You do this slowly, methodically, purposefully. You establish a pattern of thought and behavior. A method of examining the world around you.

And before you know it, you're back at your routine.

Top 10 Reasons to Enjoy Manila*

10. You speak the language and read the signage.

9. You can speed and violate all sorts of traffic rules with impunity. (And I'm not talking about bribing law enforcment officers. I'm talking about the fact that apart from going past a red light and the occassional swerving violation, traffic offenses are not prosecuted in Manila.)

8. The sky is big and it is blue.

7. Trees are perfect. (If you have a good eye and look out for them.)

6. Massages.

5. Endless conversation over cups of coffee and overpriced buko juice.

4. Family and friends.

3. Red Horse beer.

2. Sisig

1. Fresh oysters.

* Not necessarily in order. But it could be.

Kina-career

I love how Filipinos give regular words new definitions.

Take the word "salvage". Salvage means to save, to recover. In the Philippines, it means to kill a person and then to dump the dead person's body in a grassy knoll or along a dark street.

I was thinking of other equally "novel" uses of otherwise rather ordinary words, when i came upon this Wikipedia article. It's not the greatest collection of "Filipinized" English terms, but you get the picture.

And so today's post is about the word "kina-career", yet another intriguing Philippine idiomatic creation. It means to apply oneself unto an endeavor so fully and with so much focus and determination, it is as if that activity is one's life-long career or profession.

But to fully express the irony that the term "kina-career" is supposed to contain, you need to use it to describe how a person attacks a rather ordinary task.

Like opening a jar. Or getting a car to start. Collecting Happy Meal toys. You don't let up until you get what you want.

"Kina-reer nya yung pag ko-kross stitch nya. Kaya ayan-- may mantel na siya."

Personally, I think the most appropriate/funny use of "kina-reer" or "kina-career" is to describe a single woman's quest for a husband. These women apply 100% of their time, energy and emotion towards bagging a husband. I find these woman fascinating. They are at once kind, cunning, manipulative, pathetic, and sad.

x x x

And in case you think I have not noticed, I do realize that I have not blogged for about a week. Don't worry. Kina-career ko na ang blog na ito.

Illiterate

I'm not reading.

I haven't been reading.

This is not a good thing.

After work I go on-line or watch a video or surf channels on tv while thinking about the next day's activities.

I'm not reading.

At work I read a lot, a hella-lot but a lot of offering documents and contracts to purchase energy and orderly marketing agreements... they don't count.

I need to start reading books again.

Why I keep my Globe number

I spend a ridiculous amount of money keeping my Globe number. It's Manila based, so I'm on roaming 24/7. But I don't care. Why? Because some days, I get texts like this:

Saw this on the back of a taxi. Deep, pare.

TELL DEATH DO US PART. JUST CALL MY NAME RICHARD.

OR

A furniture shop in the US called "Sofa King" advertises, "Our prices are sofa-king low!" I love it!

Pivotal Questions

These 10 questions originally came from a French series, "Bouillon de Culture" hosted by Bernard Pivot.

Now they're better known as the questions that James Lipton asks every guest at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio".

1. What is your favorite word?

Yes.


2. What is your least favorite word?

Pain.

Trivia: Cousin T.'s least favorite word is "merienda"


3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Good writing I was not expecting.


4. What turns you off?

Arrogant idiots who have nothing between their ears.


5. What is your favorite curse word?

PUTA FUCK (said together, really fast, and really loud)


6. What sound or noise do you love?

Philip talking.


7. What sound or noise do you hate?

An alarm clock going off.


8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Op-ed columnist for the NYT


9. What profession would you not like to do?

Sailor. Macau Tower bunjee jump operator. Elevator operator.


10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Pwede bang what I don't want to hear? I don't want to hear:

"I can't find your name on the list."

"I think there's been a mistake."

(Speaking to Mother Teresa who's come in ahead of me) "I'm sorry lady, but you just haven't done enough."

An Open Letter to HK Women

1. Please stop curling or coloring your hair.

You have such beautiful, shiny and straight black hair. Thousands of animals have died so that scientists can create products that replicate Asian hair. I have personally spent a small forture trying to keep my hair straight. You on the other hand, persist on curling your hair (and not all the way through, mind you, only from the nape down). Please stop.

And what's with this desire to be blond? Well, no, I understand this. I too want to be blond. But blond while being Caucasian and at least 5"10 (with Nordic features). I don't want to be me with blond hair. That would look funny. Hint. Hint.

2. Please stop wearing boots.

Exposed boots are not flattering on women with short legs. And I'm sorry, we're all short. Anything under 5"8 (and a 115 lbs) is too short for the whole boots tucked into pants look or boots with skirt look.

3. The 80's are not back.

Please stop wearing the over sized purple sweaters with wide belt hanging loosely from the hips. This look went out with Irene Cara. And even she did not wear boots with this outfit.

4. Please stop being thin.

Ok, I admit, this is a personal peeve. How can you guys stay so skinny? The food's so good here!

Lost in translation

One of things I miss most about working in Manila is that back home, I can respond to questions with:

Abama. (Aba, malay ko.)

Or respond to good news with:

Ang saya saya!

If the news is really good I exclaim:

Ang ganda! Para kang nagpa-salon! (Actually, no, I don't really say this. But if I wanted too, I could.)

Instead here, if I don't know the answer to something I say:

I'm not too familiar with the facts on that one. Let me double check and get back to you.

If I get good news I say:

That's great.

And if news is very good:

That's really great.

As you can imagine, Ricky Reyes and I are not the happiest of campers.

Reasons to live in Hong Kong 11-15

11. trams

12. the Star Ferry (at night)

13. the public bus system

14. the subway system

15. airport express

Don’t forget the pork belly

I have a yellow sticky note pasted on my computer screen to remind me to bring home today’s leftover lunch.

Which actually reminds me of today’s lunch. It was glorious. The chunks of pork melting in my mouth, the crunchy rind cracking as I chew. The hoisin sauce adding just the right zing to the meat.

And the best part is, I’m having the second half of it for dinner.

Time flies

One year ago today I had a drink at Magnum (Greenbelt 2) with an friend I knew from college.

I was still working at the Perm, the lilac shirt I had on was still spotless. At that time I was thinking about joining a firm based out of Singapore for a year. They had just sent me a ticket to go see them. I was excited, but mostly tired from the brunt work at the office. I was just happy to get away for a couple of hours to enjoy some good wine and company.

One year later Magnum is closed (it actually closed a couple of months after that night), the lilac shirt stained, I live in HK and that friend of mine and I have since shared many other bottles of wine.

Four years later

The war in Iraq has been going on for four years now.

I don't know anyone who's over there and feel no connection with either the Iraqi or American cause. Truth is, I really don't care about the war in Iraq.

Except for all those lives that are going to waste. All those funny stories some guy who got blown up by a bomb could have told. At least one of the thousands who have perished could play the guitar. Draw a picture. Many left children behind. All those lullabies left unsung.

And all those lives ruined. The broken families. The businesses burned to the ground. The looted museums. All those stolen heirlooms.

The distance between us

Moving away means leaving friends and family behind.

But before you get all teary eyed and sentimental, here's where I'm going with this:

Sometimes, that's actually a good thing.

Sometimes, you need to put some distance between yourself and loved ones. Because it is only through distance that you can truly tolerate them, este, appreciate them. (Really, I meant "appreciate". I don't know where tolerate came from.)

For some relationships, the distance has actually helped. Friends I was not really in touch with back home, I now touch base with regularly through e-mail. I actually care to know what my cousins are up to, where former collegues work, what kind of garden furniture my parents picked out. If I were back in Manila, I couldn't be bothered.

And for a few relationships, distance is meaningless. R. could be in Zimbabwe. A. is actually in Cambodia. Monster in Oslo. S. in Sampaloc. It doesn't matter to me. These connections having nothing to do with geography.

That's a lot of chicken...

As I walked home with a half white chicken from my favorite roast place down the street, I thought, "I eat a lot of chicken."

So as I made my way to the apartment I asked myself, just how much chicken?

Assuming a quarter chicken for every meal, I eat about a chicken and a half a week. Six servings of chicken a week. That's about right.

Now that's 6 chickens a month. 72 chickens a year.

That's a lot of chicken.

St. Patrick's Day

Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day.

So of course ML and I just had to go to our favorite Spanish tapas place and demolish a bottle of wine (sentence not done yet) before heading to McSorely's for some scotch, a lot of ale, and a little rugby.

Crowd was thick, but my ethnicity got us a table and drinks in under 10 minutes. I'm not sure how many people know this, but almost all the bars in Hong Kong that cater to the expat crowd have Filipino wait staff. It's because we speak better English than the locals.

All you need to do is go up to the server you think is Pinoy, introduce yourself as a kababayan, and voila! Great table with two ales and two Jacks magically appear.

I used to do this a lot in NY too. And it would impress the hell out of my Argentinian classmates. I'd walk up to a Pinoy maitre d' and get us a through the velvet ropes while the New Yorkers stood in line.

Having a Philippine passport does get you in some places faster.

Chucho who?

I went to see a jazz concert last night. Some guy called Chucho Valdes. I say "some guy" because I didn't know who he was. Ate Maya talked me into seeing the show. Not that my arm needed twisting.

Apparently, Chucho is a legend in Cuban jazz. Like Jack Nicklaus is to golf. (I know, not the greatest analogy, but that's all that comes to mind right now.) The programme said he was a prodigy, learning how to play piano at 5.

I learned how to read at 7. And yet I'm normal and hold a steady job. But wait, I'm digressing.

The show was terrific. He played a number of songs where the beat of the music played by his left hand was completely different than the one on the right. The drummer kept time with the right hand and the conga player kept time with the left. It was discordant. It was dizzying. It was amazing.

The closest thing I can do like that is to tap my head with my left hand while making circular motions over my tummy with right hand.

Shhhhh...

It's quiet. I'm by myself.

I'm sitting at my kitchen counter and typing this out in almost complete silence. (but for the tapping of the computer keys and the hum of the A/C)

The older I get the more I like things quiet.

No music, no tv. No conversation.

Just quiet.

Shhh....

Pule na 'ta

Just got in from a hectic business trip in Manila.

At the NAIA waiting lounge I bumped into a Partner I used to work for at the Perm. (Note to self: always wear blue skirt suit when travelling. It's hella-uncomfortable and the heels are a killer, but you bump into all these people.)

He asked where I was going.

I said, "Home."

He nodded and smiled. I guess he didn't notice how that statement of mine blew me away. Until then, I'd never referred to Hong Kong as home.

But that sense of restlessness you feel when you've been on a long trip, how you just want to get out of those clothes, take a long hot shower and sleep, that's how I felt at the airport.

I just wanted to go... home.

Zashikibuta's younger sister

R. and A., remember her? She was a year or two younger than us in high school, but had attitude because her older sister was Zashi. Pareho silang F.P.M.B. Feeling pretty mukhang biik.

(Forgive me. But they were mean to me then.)

Anyway, I saw her. Zashi's sister. In the airport. It was like a denouement of a teen movie. Former awkward kid with zits and curly hair (that's me) meets high school enemy 20 years later.

Awkward kid now in power suit, with sexy cellphone in hand. Three inch heels and a computer bag that costs more than high school enemy's silly Cebu Pacific ticket to HK. I travel Cathay. The business class boarding pass sticking out of my coat pocket. Some things don't change. I'm still awkward.

She was travelling with a child and some man I guessed is her husband. I was on the phone the whole time. Complaining about the long line at immigration. She saw me. I saw her. We both did not say hello.

She must've thought I was still the obnoxious kid I once was.

I thought she was the complete loser she always was.

I've often wondered...

...why airplanes have ashtrays.

...why people ask for things, get them, then don't want them anymore.

...why a great majority of Filipinos think "poor" and are inherently corrupt.

...why I wasn't born 5'10, blond and on the border of France, Germany, and Switzerland, so I automatically speak four languages. (Really, it would have made no difference to God.)

...why Cantonese sounds so annoying.

...why diet 7-Up tastes so bad.

...why people don't bother to be nice.

...why can openers are always so difficult to operate.

While on my way to work I thought...

1. Walking in a Hong Kong drizzle is like walking into a room fitted with gigantic Evian spray bottles. It is not unpleasant.

2. Walking in a Hong Kong drizzle while lugging bags for today's trip is not ideal.

3. Walking in a Hong Kong drizzle while lugging bags in two and a half inch heels is "challenging".

4. My hair is still wet from this morning's shower.

5. I must look stupid.

6. At least my luggage is pretty.

Travelling

A day of travel always freaks me out a little. (But in a good way.)

You wake up at home (wherever home may be), and have lunch or dinner in Paris, or Tokyo, or New York. All in one day. You get up somewhere where you have your routine and three day old leftovers in the fridge, then in a few hours you are transported to this new place.

Somewhere unfamiliar. Somewhere new.

Somewere where you didnt get up.

I'm not sure I'm properly capturing the thoughts I have right now. About how the world as you know it can change in a day. How the people and places around you are so inherently transient. (You don't think that unless you travel a lot.) How much one's existence is defined by the place where he or she is.

How there's such a big world out there, and all you have to do is take it. And on those days you travel, you feel like you are taking it -- if only just a little.

Today’s ultra corny joke

Overheard while the Campers were watching Ellen last night:

A man walks into a bar and orders a beer. Piano music hangs in the background.

The bartend serves him the beer, ice cold in a frosted glass.

As the man is about to reach for the beer, a monkey comes out of nowhere and grabs the glass, takes a swig, and swings away on the ceiling beams, beer in hand.

The man is furious. He yells at the bartend, “WHO OWNS THAT MONKEY?!”

The bartend replies, “The pianist.”

The man angrily approaches the pianist and explodes, “DO YOU KNOW YOUR MONKEY STOLE MY BEER?!”

The pianist replies, “No, but if you hum it I’ll play it.”

Pa dump pump.

Life...

...is what happens when you're not blogging.

Three of the Campers are here for the weekend. We are having a blast. Just talking to people you've known since you were a child is both calming and exciting at once.

You finish each other's sentences. You share secrets. You drink a lot of liquor and you're not afraid to say something stupid. You make references to things that happened twenty years ago.

Yes, R., we've known each other 20 years. Creepy, eh?

Next one of these things will be in Toronto.

Six Months Later

I've been in HK six months today. Sometimes it feels much longer. Other times, much shorter. I can't quite put a finger on it.

I am happy to report that in six months I have learned two Cantonese words (it's actually just one word with two different meanings) and made two friends (two distinct individuals). I can audibly distinguish Cantonese from Mandarin. I've eaten a lot of good Chinese food. (I can use plastic chopsticks like a local.) I've started cooking really fancy dishes. I've watched countless movies and episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Shamefully, I have to admit that I've only read four books.

I have not been to Disneyland or Ocean Park. I have not been to Mongkok. I was at Victoria Peak for the first time last week.

Hong Kong has been enjoyable. I wouldn't say I've taken to it like a fish to water (that's how Chum described her stay here), but slowly I'm "getting" things. Inflections of speech are discernible, even if the words are still meaningless. Once strange irrational practices are starting to make sense. (If anything is handed to you with two hands, face the giver and accept the object with two hands.) Social constructs are slowly taking shape.

And finally, I'm starting to warm up to this whole "keep left" concept.

MCLE

When it was first introduced in 2002, I thought Mandatory Continuing Legal Education was the stupidest invention of all time. I had just passed the bar two years earlier and now they were asking me to take law classes again?

What the?!?!

I got an exemption for the first compliance period. I was studying abroad so I escaped from the requirement of having to sit through 36 hours of boredom incarnate. Three years later a new compliance period is about to expire...

...and I think MCLE is the greatest thing the Philippine bar could have ever thought of.

A week away from work.

In Manila.

At the Shang.

All expenses paid.

Why didn't we think of this earlier?!

Vista is a dumb blonde

I bought a laptop today. It came with Window's Vista.

I bought the laptop based entirely on looks and weight, much like how a man would choose a wife. Good looking and slim. The hardware rocks (you can't blame men who fall for pretty girls.)

But like most beautiful women, the inside is... well... lacking.

Vista is sexy. Windows collapse into a 3D model. It makes cooing noises. Everything is sleek, with rounded edges.

It's about as slow and inefficient as a child reading a TV manual. "To set the clock, turn to page 24. 24.... wait.... page 24 is in Chinese... MOM!!!"

Vista takes forever to turn on, another eternity to turn off. It thinks I like Yahoo! messenger so much it keeps it on top of all my applications even after I log off. Vista is about as smart as a box of hair.

But it coos.

And it's so pretty.

And edges are rounded.

I'm in love with it.

After the fall

You’re disoriented. You can’t tell which way is up. You’ve lost your footing, that’s why you fell in the first place. You came upon something unexpected. Unforeseen. Like uneven pavement. Or like a child on a bike coming at you. Something foreseeable but unavoidable.

Whack.

It hits you.

You fall.

You get up, but nothing is the same. You regain your balance, but it’s as if you’re on an uneven keel. You walk around like your shoes have marbles. Like you’ve lost your marbles.

Once you’ve fallen, you can never fully recover.

Happy Birthday JG, MP of Bite

Today is JG's birthday. I used to work for JG while he was a partner at the Perm. Today, JG is Managing Partner of his own firm. A firm he and his partners call "Bite" (like what a dog does).

I know. Bizarre name. But that's what they want to be called. So Bite it is. This really isn't a birthday shout out for JG, it's more of a post on Bite and the effects the breakaway caused at the Perm.

I was lucky enough to be in Manila the day JG and 5 other lawyers from the Perm (all except JG are litigators) simultaneously handed in their resignation letters and packed their bags. I was at our favorite watering hole at 5 in the afternoon drinking San Miguel lights with The Six. If I wasn't in a wool suit that was making me sweat profusely, I could have easily been one of them.

On that fateful day 2/22 (admittedly, this does not have the same audible catchiness as 9/11) I was reminded of a few things:

1. There's no easy way to break somebody's heart. (Let's all thank James Ingram for coining this truism.) Breakaways, like breakups, are always painful. At least for one party. And if you're talking about six lawyers leaving a 120 man firm, that's a lot of potentially broken hearts.

2. It's not what you do, it's how you do it. I gotta admit even I was suprised by the way The Six chose to leave i.e. all at once, and with a letter addressed to clients and collegues, not to the Perm. I guess they had their reasons for choosing to inform people that way.

3. Back up your hard drive. Within minutes of the "Notice" going out, The Six were locked out of their rooms.

4. Giving someone a "drive-by finger" is so gay. I suggest getting out of the car, shoving your middle finger at the relevant person's face, and challenging that someone to a fist fight.

5. Leaving take guts. The Six collectively put in about 50 man years into the Perm. After you stay that long anywhere, packing up to start something from scratch takes moxie.

I'm having a Sprite

It's almost 11pm. I'll feel bloated before I sleep. I won't finish it.

It'll make me go to the bathroom 4 times tonight.

It's useless calories.

I'm not even eating anything. I just opened it on a whim.

And it's during moments like this I truly enjoy living alone.

It's March na

God, that was fast.

Before you could say, "Oh my God, it's March na", it's March na.

It's been two months since New Year's. I know, that sounds like I'm stating the obvious, but bear with me. I'm sure it hasn't "felt" like two months.

It's March na. We're looking towards "graduation specials" and "summer fun" promos all over Manila.

Shoemart will be selling all kinds of ugly Hawaiian shirts and flip-flops that break while you're at the beach. Since it's Lent the wannabe Catholics (ie everyone in Manila) will stay away from meat on Fridays while bribing traffic cops and cheating on their taxes the rest of the week.

(Aside: I love how the guys who abstain on Fridays TELL EVERYONE THEY KNOW that they're abstaining. Like it's something really hard to do. A "real" sacrifice. Sobra, grabe, I'm so impressed.)

The weather will be really hot and really dry. Sunlight will come down like flames from a blow torch. The air will be still.

It's March na.