Bora Republic

delayed posting from May 12, 2007 10:12 AM

It's been six years since I last walked on the pristine sands of Boracay Island. At the time it was almost pure and unspoiled, the neighborhood unpolluted and moderately quiet and peaceful. A couple of years later, I saw it on TV as the complete opposite. Coming from and living quite long on the "real" islands (i.e. Marianas, Tinian, Guam, and Palau) where I frequented Bora-meets-Palawan-like beaches (which are, mind you, free of charge...down to the ferry ride to and from the islands), going to Bora now--what with its current state--didn't seem like a truly enticing idea. Barely a year ago when I spent my birthday in Panglao Island in Bohol, I made up my mind that I'd take Bohol over Bora any day.

Any day but a post-breakup day.

Because of the Labor Day weekend, which was going to give us, give or take, four or five days off from work, the gurls (Maita and Chrissie) prodded me to go with them to Bora. I was in the tossup phase in my mind when Jedi and Aries--one after the other--asked me whether I was interested in joining them to Bora for the long weekend. Heads or tails notwithstanding, I felt like I was going to get swayed. So after checking our training schedules on the then-becoming-filled-up calendar and ensuring that the May 1 weekend wasn't going to be crucial for us trainers, I went online to my savings account. After all, I just went to Thailand and spent quite a pocketful. When I figured I could still afford to swipe my ticket and not get broke or bankrupt, I went online and started booking flights to Bora.

That, my dears, was just going to be the start of my ordeal. Apparently, everybody and their mothers were going to Bora for that weekend. So, after having teamed up with Chrissie in scouring the net for good deals (whether or not it was a package or just plane fare, at that point, we really didn't care). Having braved hours on end of being placed on hold and transferred from one extension to another (sometimes only to be disconnected or made to call again) and weekend, lunchbreak or after-office sprints to airline and travel agents offices, we finally secured tickets to Bora...with matching cheap-ass accommodations courtesy of Jedi at D'Mall.

When we got to Bora, it was NOTHING like how I remembered it six years ago. There was prolly a gazillion people (and about a tenth of that number in canine population); restaurants, stalls and kiosks/stands everywhere; blaring music (or noise?) from humongous and multiple amplifiers/speakers everywhere; and makeshift stages for events (at the time we were there, there was the Smart Buddy event as well as the Century Tuna Beach Body thingee competition). The quiet, laid-back, soothing air of Bora was nowhere present...unless maybe when you go have a massage in one of the expensive spas.

With the Training Department digital camera (this time, officially NOT mine anymore) in tow, we started heading for our 500-shots quota. But what probably rivaled our photo ops frenzy was our food-tripping. Barely finishing one "cocktail" at one restaurant and we'd be heading to another restaurant to eat again! And I am not talking of light meals here but food like carbonara (for the "cocktail", mind you) and then later on baby back ribs, pork barbecue and garlic fried rice. We were all having a great time...until of course my ex emerges from the crowd--flanked by the new boys (emphasis on the plural form, ladies and gentlemen...apparently my replacement, after barely one week; can you spell out TRASHY?) and having the temerity to even doing beso with my friends...and me. For about five seconds, I believe my glaring coldness froze the summer heat of bora...until the wretched pack of skanks left the vicinity. So much for an enjoyable Bora trip.

After dinner--and apparently after "thawing out" from the cold moment--I had the requisite Bora henna tattoo. For 250 bucks, I got myself a fancy tattoo on my left arm. If I wasn't a keloid former, I would most definitely have that same exact henna tattoo tattooed permanantly on my arm...so much for not being a wooz but not getting away with it. Took more photos and walked by the shorelines. Went to check out the Century Tuna event. But after seeing that it was "invitational only", their pa-über-social effect being waned by the isawan flanking their perimeter, and the event not even starting after more than an hour and a half, I walked out and headed back to the upstairs attic (we rented out those attic-type rooms atop establishments at D'Mall) and slept. At half past midnight, I took another shower (perhaps the fifth for the day, thanks to the humidity) and headed for a walk towards the "clubs"...or the beach versions of it. Met up with Aries (Jedi and the girls were already snoring and wouldn't budge, those Manangs!) at Hey Jude and had a couple of beers (saw the ex passed by with yet another set of new boys [again, emphasis on the plural form]...wow, copulating like there's no tomorrow, I noticed). Was enjoying the trip-hop music at Jude when they started playing Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby. That did it for me, and I dragged Aries to go to another bar (which name escapes me right now...Beachsomething). Music was house, and no signs of Vanilla Ice in the playlist, so I took a swig off my fourth bottle of SanMig Light and joined this exotic looking couple on the makeshift ledge (actually, a low table). Barely five minutes into the gyrating on the ledge, exotic looking guy (think Black Eyed Peas' Pinoy guy meets Jackie Brown afro hairstyle) dances with me, got my name, introduced me to his "girlfriend" Sandy (another exotic looking babe, similar afro hairstyle, only less poofy and more kempt). Danced, gyrated, chitchatted, and guffawed some two or three dance songs...and Male Jackie Brown was doing an indecent proposal. "Erick (yes, I go with pseudonyms at bars, thank you!), you really can move. My girlfriend and I were wondering if you were THAT good in bed, and if you'd go with us to our hotel room!" Boink. Yeah, like that was going to happen. I politely told him that I'm not into that (although I've had my share of that back in my younger years), and continued gyrating myself to kingdom come. I was totally weirded out with the fact that I was on the ledge dancing with only a tank top, sarong, and slippers on. Something you could NEVER wear to bars/clubs in the Metro. Haha...so I enjoyed the moment, oblivious to the bad henna tattoo job I had earlier, which was literally dripping all over my arm. Met someone interesting, bought a beer or two for us, and retreated to a more quiet area of the beach where we could get to know each other better. At daybreak, the two of us were still on the same spot, and decided to walk by the shoreline. At the first sight of the sun's rays, we got possessed by the moment and kissed each other on the lips...and parted ways, knowing that we may not see each other again. Ah. 'Twas all good.

The gurls and I decided to sunbathe--OMG, like when did I think I had any more light pigment in my skin that could allow further darkening--and just laze away the remainder of the day. At some point, Aries introduced me to a group of showbiz people, and I was like, "Dude, you look really familiar. Have we met before?" to one person...only to find out later on that he was Bamboo of Rivermaya. I was laughing like crazy. I absolved myself from that episode. I am not a big fan anyway. The highlight of our trip, however, was the paraw boat ride around the islands. We went to this secluded spot where we had the most expensive pasta and nilagang baka. Haha. Well, it was worth the travel and the wait anyway. And the owners were really cool about us wetting the cushioned chairs, so 'twas all good. On our way back, while at sea, I stood up one of the planks of the boat and screamed the ex's name and cussed and hollered and invoked evil to the wind until I grew hoarse. With my last drying tears in my eyes--easily mistakenable for sea water--I was resolved on thinking that I'm glad that was over. I'm finally free.

In another swimming splurge, Jedi and I met two interesting individuals--one a dog, and the other one a "boy" (well, anyone younger than Jedi, Aries, the gurls and I are tagged "boys" and "girls" anyway bweheheheh). The dog's name was Noy the Dog--the sweetest, most adorable Golden Retriever you can ever find (quite opposite the person I named him after). First time I met him was back at the baby back ribs place where he was just looking at me, wagging his tail and playing dead and sitting on my command. He swam to me and Jedi far from the shore, and I panicked that he'd drown, so I tried to save him...only to find out that he was an excellent swimmer. That's how we met Jojo, the "boy". He was amused at how good "our" dog was. "Aso mo?" he asked me. "I wish. Askal to, pero may class. Hehe," I said, giving Jojo a big grin. We guys developed a bond almost instantaneously, this boy being his first time in Bora. Apparently, he went with his family, and they're literally knocked out by 9pm and he's got no one to go out with. Having said that, we all promised to meet up at a certain hour at a certain place...and conveniently forgot to exchange numbers. But as chances would have it, we bumped into each other after dinner and later on showed him around. I saw myself in Jojo when I was still googly-eyed and excited about the idea of being in Bora...and so I let him enjoy the island. I wonder if we have the same perspective on the island. After all, he still hasn't got a point of comparison. So, I guess not. Let Bora tease him first.

More swimming, sunbathing, tanning, photo ops, barbecues, baby back ribs, ex sightings, beautiful sunsets, beer bottles, pasalubong shopping and sunscreen later, we headed back to Manila. I was, apparently the only one who turned negro. The two gurls had way too little melanin in their system...damn them.

Back in the office, sporting my new tan, I've received two separate compliments on how manly (as opposed to...?) and "yummy" (haha) I was with my new complexion. So, having heard that, I reckon I'm keeping the new skin tone...and I guess Glutathione's never going to make any profit on me, eh?

Now, now, time to logoff, as it's time for my 500 digicam shots...

Ano raw??! (Cinco de Mayo)

delayed posting from May 3, 2007 9:26 PM

Bwahahahaha...the return of the come back! Bentong's trigger-happy digicam and Walkman phone strike again! O, you're old enough to read between the lines...like you need spoon (or breast) feeding to understand each pic...

1. Damn. You know me too well...

2. What would shoppers think of me doing just that, aber???


3. So that explains why models are dumb...

4. Na-intimidate ako, pramis...not that I ain't ;) But still....

5. Sabi ko nga eh...


6. Tsk tsk tsk...sinabi namang wag na mag-strip show e...ayan tuloy!


7. I'm so fucking horny.

8. Namaaaaan!

Sayonnara

delayed posting from April 22, 2007 12:43 PM

My good friend Shy wrote an entry in her blog about pre-nup agreements. These "agreements", however did not concern any material, financial or corporeal matters, but intangibles like friendships, loyalty to a party or parties, and choices needed to be made (or not). She argued that there should be a figmental pre-nup agreement made between a couple so that when these two part ways, their friends wouldn't have to go through the motions of having to choose which half they'd "pledge allegiance" to. Of course, this is such a reality happening everyday, albeit such a really puny thing to even waste one's time and effort on...considering that--as mature individuals--choices such as choosing one over the other is such a naïve thing to be done. The very essence of a relationship is that, as you enter it as individuals with separate wealth of experiences (and friends, for that matter), you are supposed to embrace each other's individuality to form a collective whole--that is, as a couple. Ergo, whoever one "accumulates" as his new friend or acquaintance transcends any "original affiliations" of that friend whatsoever. Literally: who's mine are yours, who's yours are mine.

But, as we all come to realize in the end, there are always exceptions to the rule. When you receive endless queries or "permissions" from your own friends as to the decorum of keeping contact with your ex (despite your constant reassurances that it's perfectly OK for them to maintain the friendship with the ex--but that they should not expect the ex and myself to be in the same room at the same time), or when you invariably receive unsolicited opinions (from the same group of friends you've had for the longest time) about how "evil" or "mean" or "impatient enough" or "inconsiderate" you are (despite the honest-to-goodness reality that you have been everything but those to your ex) in having to end the relationship and leaving the ex "forsaken" or like a "basang sisiw"...one's gotta reach a breaking point, and eventually change his stance.

Yes, about one and a half years later, I've decided to get out of an unhealthy relationship. After a while, I realized that I have been loving myself a little bit less than how I should, and that all the concessions, patience, understanding and sacrifices given were all in vain. After a while, I also learned that trust is something you can never force on anybody; if your ex had a history of cheating or "utilitarianism" (insert sarcasm here) or incorrigible lying, reason should only remind you of what your History professors used to teach you in school: "history repeats itself".

And, boys and girls of all ages, all friends and non-friends of mine, yes, I am mean...but only when you deserve it. Yes, I could be impatient...but only after I've exhausted all avenues and only when I've been pushed to a wall. But, no. I am never evil nor inconsiderate. You have no fucking idea what happened within the four walls of my condo (and apparently, even outside of it) the whole 17+ months of it...so keep your self-righteous, accusatory, and misguided opinions to yourselves. As Mother Melanie would have consistently said, don't judge me because I am not a book.

Randy Crawford's "One Hello" said a lot to me at the end of the break-up: If you're not afraid of what love brings, then endings are beginnings of beautiful things. The beautiful things, apparently, are those little things that you've missed or taken for granted when you were too busy making the relationship work. I guess Michael Johnson's "Bluer Than Blue" captures some of it: After you go, I can catch up on my reading; after you go, I have a lot more time for sleepin'; after you go, I've got a lot more room in my closet; after you go, I can stay out all night long if I feel like it; ...I can start my whole life over. I guess goodbyes are not necessarily bad...that is why it's called GOODbye and not BADbye. No matter how bad your breakup might be, the silver lining is that, at some point, you'd come to a realization that you may have learned a thing or two in the relationship that should keep you more level-headed (as opposed to being way above the clouds, that is) the next time you decide that it's time for you to get into another one. A disclaimer, however, was prudently passed on to me by my long-ago ex, Cassie: Before you enter a new relationship, you're going to have to unlearn some of your learnings from your past relationship(s), as these may not necessarily work with/for your new relationship. Amen. Yes, Ma'am.

Sayonnara, ex. If you spoke Nihongo, you'd realize that it doesn't mean "See you again", but simply "Goodbye".

And, oh, a pahabol. That Cake revival of Gloria's classic is what I'm looping in my iPod: I should've changed my fucking lock, I should have made you leave your key, If I have known for just one second you'd be back to bother me...lalaladida. Yeah...I am still fucking bitter.

Sawasdee Krab

delayed posting from March 3, 2007 11:52 PM

It all started with that song from Chess the musical, that one originally sung by Murray Head and later on by Vinylshakerz...that got me thinking one day to book a flight to Thailand. Yes. I was just listening to One Night in Bangkok, one of those kitschy 80's song that was part of my mp3 player's various remixes, when it hit me: oh, damn; I wanna go to Bangkok. Simple as that. Two minutes later, I was calling/SMSing/YMing my friends, asking who'd want to--and could--spare a couple of days off from their schedules at work to go with me, and after getting some even tentative positive responses, I filed my vacation leave, and then went online at Cebu Pacific to book a roundtrip ticket. For an affordable nine grand, I got myself a roundtrip ticket to Suvarnabhumi Bangkok Airport, taxes included. I started making calls, reservations and pre-packing packing. Yes, there is such a thing. You're gonna have to tinker with my LifeDrive in order to have a more general idea about it, however...

After a couple of weeks of waiting (yes, that damned "budget fares" promo really got me scampering for a ticket REALLY early), I printed my itinerary, my eticket, and I hoisted my three-piece luggage with me and got rolling into the domestic airport. God! That was my first time to go to the Ninoy Aquino Domestic Airport...and boy was I bummed out. It was late afternoon when we went to the airport (I had to sneak out of the office really early just so I wouldn't get caught in traffic that time), and the pre-departure procedures were a killer. So, was it just me, or were the international and domestic flights sections were in one and the same area?! Like, does that really work out for anyone? 'Cause it totally does NOT work for me. And jeezus...the last time I went on an international flight was when I came home from my Bali-US trip (Oh, that in itself is a novel, so ask me about it!)...and it was not this strict. This time, I thought I had to remove my shoes twice, undid my belt buckle thrice, and went through screening about the same frequency. I asked myself, what the hell's all that for? It's not even a US-bound flight! And why am I being asked to remove my shoes and belt AGAIN? Could I have made a deadly weapon materialize in thin air or out of my feeble body right after I got out of the first screening? Why didn't they just throw in a full cavity search, and included a canine sniffing session while they're at it? And oh God, please! You mean, I couldn't even bring with me my Kenzo Perfume bottle? How the hell am I supposed to smell immaculately yummy when I deplane if I can't even splash myself with it...because it's in my freaking checked-in luggage??? Or my toothpaste-mouthwash combo for that matter?! Jeeezus. The things you'd go through just to collect more international boarding passes! (OK, OK, I was kidding there.)

We arrived rather late at the Suvarsomethingsomething Airport and our host Alejandro (aka Jun) and his household help "Misis" were there to pick us up...which was really very great, because as I later found out, English was not exactly a staple language in Bangkok.
After a couple of minutes of driving from the airport, and some sort of crash course on Thai greetings and phrases, we arrived at Jun's VERY impressive company-provided pad--the Garden Grove Suites. I was amazed. I knew I was going to love it there...what with the interior being über-authentic Thai, and it being right smack in the middle of Soi 16, i.e. somewhere really close to literally everything--where everything's just a tuk-tuk or mtr/mrt ride away. And, oh, did I mention the to-die-for pool and health club?

Day one was spent sight-seeing. But before any of those, had to run to the mall to get a Thai sim card. My Globe roaming, for some fucked up reason, wouldn't work. From the minute I stepped out of Thailand Immigrations, I've been turning my mobile phone on and off--but the damned roaming just wouldn't kick in. So, before the sight-seeing even commenced, I was finally loading my Walkman phone my new True sim. Due to the language barrier, I ended up buying the wrong sim, and thus had to complain about it to the attendant who was moderately apt in English. With the complaints and settling process alone, they've wasted a little more than 30 minutes of my morning. And since, for some reason, nobody in the fricking mall--or the major touristy areas for that matter--could point us to where (and how to go to) the Floating Market and the Rose Garden were, we resolved to the realization that we were not going there that day. So day one was just spent on food-tripping (thank God for that) and a whole lot of clothes-, apparel-, and electronics window shopping. We somehow decided to go to the Philippine Embassy and maybe ask for some "closer to home" assistance. At 1201pm, anyway, i.e. when we got there at the gate, we were advised to just come back because, apparently, the offices were closed during lunchtime. Ah, Only in Da Pilipins. Later on, when we got hungry, I ordered this fresh mango salad, as well as authentic Tom Yum soup. I normally have a very high tolerance for spicy food...so I never really expected that about halfway through my late lunch, I would sweat profusely and my lips would feel like 'twas swollen--all because of the very spicy food that I have ordered. I think I may have consumed about three tall glasses of jasmine and Thai iced tea just to numb the burning sensation in my mouth. Later on went to Jim Thompson museum. Apparently, he's this white guy who sorta kinda introduced Thailand's rich heritage/culture, and had brought into Thailand some really interesting forms of art (OK, OK...he's really an American businessman who helped revitalize Thailand's silk and textile industry in the 1950s and 1960s...that's his "official" quickie biography, according to Wikipedia). The entrance to the museum was a tad high, so we decided to just take snapshots of us within the exterior of the museum...and left almost immediately. We capped the evening of Day one by braving long walks canvassing and checking availability of one hotel to the other. Our two girl friends Enchie and Che were arriving later that night and they still have no place to stay. Brilliant. So after booking a cheap ass pension house for the two bitchgurls, we headed home. And boy, was that hot shower following the warm bubble bath soak such a refreshing treat for me.

Day two, we hired a cab--yes, a pink one--for a good few hundred bahts, and went temple-hopping. We had maps and guides and dictionaries and internet site printouts, and we all fit comfortably in the wee pink cab. The local driver, apparently, has a Filipina girlfriend, and so does understand SOME Tagalog phrases..."putanginamo" and "mahal kita" being the very few. He sorta kinda reeks of clothes worn for the last two or three days, and if it wasn't for his bubbly personality and genuine desire to show us around and not mess up with us tourists, I would've braved commuting. Nothing a good crack in the car window couldn't fix. And besides, his 60-minute cassette tape of English songs including Backstreet Boys' I Want It That Way and OMC's How Bizarre (which, later on became our "official theme song") was really REALLY entertataining. Really. When I said "temple-hopping", I meant literally almost making "pakyaw" of all temples. Yes. 'Twas like a nightmare of a blanket coverage for all temples of Bangkok. Me being a true blue tourist, and a photography aficionado (read: ME in the picture, or ME taking the shots of sceneries), I looked forward to the temples (or WATs)...but at around 2pm, with no lunch, no more water, and the fucking scorching sun, I decided my temple-hopping frenzy had officially come to an end. The three of them can go on snapshotting and posing and gallivanting under the evil, evil sun...but I am sitting that one out. 230pm and an expensive frozen dish with rice that we nuked in the microwave later, I was feeling better. The snapshotting and posing and gallivanting under the evil, evil sun resumed. God. What you'd do for a nice Friendster picture! At almost 4pm, we've virtually covered every road, stairway, boat ride, and long walks to see pretty much all temples. I was like, what the fuck? You've seen one temple, you've seen 'em all. Short Buddha, tall Buddha, Lotus-positioned Buddha, standing/upright Buddha, reclining Buddha, golden Buddha, emerald-studded Buddha, throne-seated Buddha, no-pictures allowed Buddha...damn, they're all the same Buddha to me. And, damn, I hate untying and re-lacing, and then untying again my sneakers just to get inside the temple. Remind me again why monks wear flip-flops and sandals. After all the photo ops, we headed for home...slept the entire freaking duration of the cab ride, while Floyd kept yapping and yapping away at the passenger seat, oblivious to the idea that the three of us at the backseat did not give a rat's ass what he--and the driver--was talking about. A couple of hours later, we were at Patpong, feasting our eyes on two men fucking onstage, women in cages, pingpong balls being thrown out of a woman's vulva, and S&M at its finest onstage. How's that for the irony of just coming from a temple visit? Ah Thailand. Amazing. Makes you want to listen yet again to How Bizarre...

Day three saw us excited and in full force (me, the gurls, Floyd, Jun and Misis) headed for the weekend market, Chatuchak. I wore the most comfortable clothes and footwear, anticipating a really long day, and not to mention more heat and humidity from the Thai weather.
The whole day was spent entirely on bargain-hunting, Fanta-drinking, ukay-ukay-/wagwag-like digging through stacks of merchandise, and walking through mazes and mazes of stalls ranging from clothing to accessories to scented candles and incense to food to furnitures to rabbits and puppies. Chatuchak was Ben's [bargain] shopping heaven. Aside from the multiple orgasms of the day's shopping, it was practically a "normal", uneventful day for us...until Floyd started appearing flustered--devoid of color, that is--and declared that he had been pickpocketed and in the process had lost his passport...and mine. How many Ateneans does it take to lose two passports in less than an hour at the Chatuchak Market? Apparently, just one. With me patiently and intently biting my bitchy tongue all the way to the Visitor Assistance Center (VAC), I started calling home, and told my colleagues that I lost my passport and might take longer than scheduled before I could come back to Manila (considering it was a Saturday when it happened and the following Monday was an official non-working holiday in Thailand). While dragging all the smoke I could inhale from my stress/comfort cigarette (my very first ever cigarette stick after having stopped smoking in 2001), I realized I should make lemonade out of that lemon incident--I looked at the brighter side and saw it as an opportunity to extend my vacation. I was in that pseudo-jubilant state of mind when a uniformed officer approached the VAC Desk and produced Floyd's passport. Thank God he can go home. I still get to stay longer...which was still good. Floyd was offering to stay with me/us in Bangkok until I processed my new passport and are able to come home. I continued biting my tongue, thinking how I've saved up a lot just to buy my limited edition genuine leather passport holder, and about all those immigrations stamps I've accumulated over the years (from Palau, the US, Bali, HK, etc.) which were now gone. We were about to leave the VAC area when I was notified that my passport had resurfaced. I had mixed emotions--relieved that I still had my passport holder and my valuable stamps, and dejected with the botched plan on my extended overseas vacation. After that whole ordeal, I didn't have any more interest in shopping (which was like a Guiness Book of World Records in "impossible" for me), and so I asked that we went home. Another warm bubble bath soak before sleeping, and I was capping day three.

Our last day in Bangkok was spent hearing mass, doing last minute shopping, and maxing out the memory card of my Training Department Sony digicam (which was, technically, still mine, because I paid for it using my credit card, and to date, haven't been reimbursed for it) to take lots and lots of pictures. Evening came and we went back to Garden Grove to have a small gathering for Floyd, as it was his 27th birthday. The same cast at Chatuchak was there, feasting on Bistek Tagalog, Italian Spaghetti, fried chicken, cake and ice-cream. He seemed really happy with the surprise. Jun did a really good job organizing this supposedly-impromptu dinner, i.e. a few hours before our departure back to Manila. As Floyd blew his birthday candle on his cake, I secretly wished him well--that he wouldn't lose anybody's passport again. Ever.

Soonest we boarded the plane, I decided I was too exhausted to even flirt and heckle with the three, so I moved to a different seat. Just before the plane took off, I was snoring quietly--don't you dare oppose that, you fools!--and oblivious to the three of them taking snapshots of themselves (and apparently of me sleeping, too) in their seats like there was no tomorrow. I woke up barely 30 minutes before touchdown at the domestic airport. Back to reality.

Now, scamper off. I still have 300 photos worth of Adobe Photoshop magic to do.

Balentayms

delayed posting from February 16, 2007 1:32 PM

A week before Valentine's Day, our über-kwela-gimik Internal Comm gurls came up with yet another gimik for the company. To save me from the ball-buster task of paraphrasing it, here's their actual announcement/advertisement:

WOWing The World with LOVE
Voices. Posted February 7, 2007

It's February once again and it's time to WOW people with LOVE!

Put your thinking cap on and come up with the sweetest and most creative way to WOW your loved one (sweetheart, dad, mom, friend, etc.) this Valentine's Day!

Tell us how you plan to WOW a loved one this Valentine's Day. And if you're the chosen one, allow us to WOW you by saving you from the Valentine rush. Planning to send roses and chocolates to someone? The roses and chocolates are on us!

Click on the link below to send in your entries. Deadline for submission is on Tuesday, February 13.

THINKING HAT??? Hah! Dr. Seuss borrowed The Cat's hat from moi!!! So....me and my ultimate-saccharine self sat still (or was I shifty?), took one good look at my Valentine's miniature photo in my phone's address book, smiled my widest smile (no more than six upper teeth showing, mind you, otherwise that will not be a smile anymore but a "grin" HAHA), closed my eyes momentarily, took one deep sigh, and typed away.

This was my entry:

Hi Kay!

This is my entry to the Valentine contest. I hope it's romantic enough for you. Hehe.

I will WOW my Valentine TONIGHT by sticking a packet of tiny glow in the dark stars (or dots, whichever's available at the bookstore later) on the ceiling above our bed to spell out the message "thank you for coming into my life". When we turn off the lights, my message will be read.

The next day, I'll leave (inside my Valentine's office bag) a Valentine card with six inserts: "gift certificates" that I made myself (see attached samples), which may be redeemed from me at any time...and have no expiration date! The beauty of this is that I will be the one providing each and every "request" in the certificate...and it cost me almost nothing.

These are the "gift certificates"...

I didn't win the contest...but ask me if I got laid 'cuz of all that. [Insert sinister laughter here]

Love In A Stub

delayed posting from December 26, 2006, 12:34 PM

The one thing more agonizing and LESS "fun" than the actual Christmas shopping experience is the PLANNING. Being the obsessive-compulsive freak that I am, I usually make sure that my Christmas (grown-up and kids alike) list is done WAY ahead of time, i.e. approximately two months before Christmas. Once the very first Christmas carol starts blaring in the radios or shopping malls' PA system, I almost in-sync start "making my list and checking it twice"...just to beat MY own deadline. There's always categorization, of course--Family, "Spouse" (assuming, that is, that I am attached at the moment), Close Friends (which usually covers my college pals, the Astrokids, Sheila, Chrissie, Maita, Earl, Patrick and Serp), Officemates (which I further subdivide into close colleagues and those who I have a purely professional relationship with, Tenants/Roommates, Business Contacts (those I do "rakets" with), and "Generic" Friends and Acquaintances. These are subdivied into price ranges--sky's the limit (usually reserved for Spouse if the Spouse had been REALLY good), pricey, 200-500 range, "vaue for money" (those packs that can be given away to big groups of "homogeneous" people), and the tiangge price (usually for the household help, Manongs ang Manangs).

As soon as my list is complete (or at least almost finished), I start doing my bargain-hunting, window-shopping, and Sale-visitations...and often grab an item or two so I could already tick off someone's name/item from The List. My experience with this, however, is that--despite my OC-ness, I always end up buying something else...or more than what I've planned or budgeted for. Nevertheless, I don't mind a bit...as long as I know that my recipient will love what I have for his/her Christmas gift.

When it comes to what *I* want, however, I can't seem to tell. Like when people make me do those wish-lists or ask me point-blank what I want for a gift...I just feel stumped. I'm not saying that I have everything I want--oh, hell no. If I did, I wouldn't be drooling over point-and-shoot top-of-the-line SLR digital cameras, outrageously priced iPods and other media players, or any makaagaw-pansin messenger/gym/office bags.

Does it have anything to do with one's age? Here, I can't speak for others, but in my case, I can actually say that that seems to be the case. Since I started moving up from one Age Checkbox to another, I've stopped expecting anything (gifts, that is) during special occasions from friends, colleagues or relatives. For birthdays, I'd rather have an intimate dinner or a rowdy pizza merienda with no presents. Yes, it's rather nice receiving, that still applies...but now, there's just simply no expectations. I guess that works out better for me, because the less expectations, the more delighted I get if and when there's actually a present for me!

But since I'm being asked anyway, here's my response: just give me a gift certificate from a department store such as SM or Rustan's, or from The Spa, or even David's Salon. You'd be absolutely certain that your present will be much appreciated and put to real use, as I would've wanted it in the first place.

I am, however, having some serious drooling over that Black and Decker Power Saw...so, howzabout a gift certificate from Ace Hardware? Any takers? Hihihihi ;-)

When It Rains, “It’s Raining Cats and Dogs”

delayed post from December 16, 2006, 2:11 PM

If Janice de Belen is known for her being the Queen of Quotable Quotes (e.g. the immortal “God was with us when we did it”), I have every reason to believe that I am her bitch. And my extensive knowledge of quotes—ranging from the most intellectual (e.g. “Man’s greatest need is to be understood” [Stephen Covey]), to the most self-righteous (e.g. “My feet are still on the ground; I just wear better shoes” [Oprah Winfrey]), to the most irreverent (e.g. “Must you always begin with sarcasm first?” [Grace Adler, Will & Grace]), to the most ME (e.g. “I can only please one person a day; today isn’t your day, and tomorrow’s not looking good either” [Scott Adams]), and to the most real (e.g. “Never argue with an idiot; they drag you down to their level, and then beat you with experience” [Some anonymous wiseass])—have proven useful to me during my countless workshops. And thank God for the net, I can just Google any quote, and incorporate them into my PowerPoint slides whenever I need some.

And speaking of quotes, here are just some of the quotes that have been most useful not to my participants, but to myself…because they have been immortalized with some of the most recent developments in my life:

Patience is a virtue. Ask and you shall receive. If you want something, the whole universe will conspire to give it to you. Ask, believe, and receive. Success/luck comes in three’s. Good things to those who wait. And…When it rains, it pours.

You’d remember my 360-degree turn on my luck with the perennially defunct career in the modeling world. Two protracted years of waiting, and as I was taking flight from it, Fate stepped in and gave me such a great blessing, beyond what I wished for.

On December 3, my online techy group Mapalad (a group of Palm handheld owners in the Philippines) held its Christmas Party at Gilligan’s in Makati. Prior to that, the thread of conversations in the online forum got longer and longer, more and more animated…all because of the official launching of the Palm Treo 680. Add to that, a major raffle will be drawn, and the winner will come home with a brand-spanking new T680…or at least a certificate that you can hold on to until you can claim the handheld at the Philippine distributor’s office (it’s called Microwarehouse). A few days before the party, Microwarehouse pledged to add another major raffle: a brand new Palm Treo 650—already being phased out by the manufacturers and distributors, but nevertheless still valuable (at P32k/brand-new handheld). We were all totally excited to party hardy…and go home not empty-handed.

I headed to Gilligan’s straight from Sheila’s event at the Mall of Asia (tell me again why this mall is such a hit when it’s in actuality a monstrosity??), where she played umpire while we ogled at the beautiful bodies of the Brazilian Jujitsu competitors. ‘Twas dinner time and, being a virtual newbie at the event, I started mingling so I’d familiarize myself with the old-timers. We played several games and raffles…and there was no game where I wouldn’t win a prize (like a limited edition PalmOne shirt or a box of cheesecakes) or a minor raffle where my name wouldn’t be drawn. The whole time, the members were jeering at me, saying that since I’ve won most minor prizes, I’d never get any more luck to get the Treos. I just grunted and fixed my mind on winning one of the two. I said I didn’t care which phone, as long as I won one. And hell, I did. When Sharon “singkit” Agoncillo, the president of the org, pulled the name of the winner of the T650 and said “Oh, my god, this member is so going to be happy! It’s a HE, people!” I felt a thud in my chest. I knew it was going to be my name. And true enough, she called out “shiaolien”, which is my member/user name. The crowd erupted into cheers and chants of “Donate! Donate!” which I countered by sticking out my tongue, a beaming grin, and a dash to the photo ops on the stage. A Palm Treo 650. And all that for just a 300 peso ticket.

I was still marinating in my lucky streak when I was given the requisite directorial role for the Christmas Party presentation cum inter-division competition. For years, I’ve been directing the presentations, and my groups had always won every single year…except for the years when I left the company when I worked in the US. So you can just imagine the pressure of having to direct yet again. We had a very limited time to rehearse, coupled with some unwilling participants and rehearsal schedules not matching our free times—these all spelled failure waiting to happen. I gave it my best shot nevertheless; and worked my ass out with the remaining committed participants.

Come Christmas Party, we were all asked by the organizers to come in costumes—that is, something inspired by school uniforms. A majority of employees came in their old high school standard issue uniforms, including their gym uniforms. I decided not to do the same because my old UST Pay High uniform consisted of nothing but yucky chocolate brown gabardine pants and perspiration non-resistant white chifonelle short-sleeved shirt, with matching UST Pay High patch replete with stitches of bars indicating our year level. I came as a confused school boy (read: my costume was that of an Ivy Leaguer crossed with a retarded high school dropout hehehehe)…which in the end won me my Best in Costume Male Category award: a P1500 gift certificate from Penshoppe (tell me again what REALLY nice ensemble you can buy at Penshoppe for that price!). And, as they were announcing the winners of the Christmas Party presentation—it was down to our group and the Operations Group, which to my knowledge would win 1st place because of the relevance of their presentation—I lingered at the buffet station outside by the foyer area to munch on some more desserts, because I was already prepared to accepting defeat. But as I was biting my 3rd helping of flan, the room erupted to the announcement of the grand prize winner…our group. I semi-choked, almost dropped my plate, and dashed to the event hall. I haphazardly hugged and beso’ed, high-fived and shook hands with people, and hurled myself to the stage…only to realize that they were still calling the 2nd place winner and I just ruined the “surprise” element by being onstage way before it was time for the official announcement for the 1st place. Talk about major embarrassing moment. Hehe.

As if that overflow of luck wasn’t enough, my hosting job (for weddings and debuts, that is) skyrocketed during the Christmas season…with about one or two hosting gigs per week (which is way over my monthly quota of two). Again, I got more than what I bargained for.

Ah, yes. 2006 wasn’t half as bad. When it rains, it really pours. It poured on me. Who knows, maybe next time, it’ll be your turn.

Hundred's Place

100! Yes. that's what this entry is. It's my 100th blog entry.

71, 534 words total.

406, 106 characters in all.

1, 123 paragraphs and 6, 155 lines since my first ever blog entry.

So much has passed. So much said. So many people met--whether in person or through the cyber world. So much more left to say.

Here's to 100 more. :)

Me and My Construction Worker Fantasy

delayed posting from November 27, 2006, 7:25PM

Some time in July or August 2005, I clocked out early (read: "early" would mean exactly 530pm, as I would normally kill time at the office and leave at 6 or 7pm) to go to the gym. After all, the early bird does get to use the locker of his choice and hog all the hangers he could get his claws on. And although summer was over—ergo, the "seasonal" gym rats would have already laid low on the supersets-to-get-buffed-for-the-beach and thus were elsewhere—I still thought arriving early at Gold's would give me a head start on all the other "regulars" like me (I use "regular" loosely, not to mean as if I was regularly [or daily] working out, but to mean I was one of those "regular" and not Lou Ferrignoish gym freaks [oh, shut your twat. YOU know who Lou Ferrigno is!]). So after shutting down and double-checking that I had all my requisite gym stuff—padlock, heavy-duty Old Navy backpack, freshly-uploaded House mp3s in my Creative (I don't dig iPod as much as you do), and all my gym clothes inside the damned bag (trust me, you wouldn't wanna have gone through the hassle of walking all the way to Ayala Center, surviving all three bag-checks at every mall entranceway, finding just the right locker, unpacking everything and cramming them into the really tight locker space...only to realize you forgot your gym shorts or a pair of white socks)—I headed out the door.

The night was breezy, lots of people were partying that early at the promenade area of Greenbelt 2 (that's where I normally pass through to get to the gym)...and all of a sudden I had an urge to just call my friends from the Makati area and ask 'em out to drink. I let the momentary feeling sit for a while, and then I continued walking. When I got to the walkway escalator, I had a feeling of being followed. When I looked back, a man in his 30's seemed to be rushing and making his way through the crowd to get to me. I *knew* he was targetting me because we locked gazes and he did that wait-up -for-me gesture, and I was the only person within his eyesight's range. I made a really quick mental calculation, an "experiential scan" if I may, to be absolutely sure who this fast-approaching man was in my life. A former officemate? A classmate? A student from one of the hundreds of seminars I've conducted? Or was he one of those goons with a modus operandi of faking their identities and either robbing or murdering people? I opted for the last profile. It was, after all, better to keep my guard up rather than let myself be an easy prey. So, I casually continued my stride, pretending I didn't really see or recognize him and then slowly made my way to the general direction of the entrance, where there were two guards. The man, however, was fast and caught up with me. He was almost catching his breath when he got to be face to face with me. He seemed to look me from head to foot and back again. I was a tad insulted, so I gave him my classic nonchalant, "yes?"

What Mark (that was his name, by the way) said totally made me crack up. "Hi. I was wondering, do you already have an agent?" I replied, "Agent?" And he said, "Yeah, an agent...as a commercial model." I replied in my half-funny, half-sarcastic tone, "You're kidding, aren't you??" And he goes, "No, I'm inviting you to come to our office, take a VTR, do a file, and sign as our talent. My boss and I spotted you from Havana, and we thought you’d make a good model." I was one-third stunned, one-third struck with hilarity, and one-third Twilight Zone-meets-Punk'd. Still a little bit dazed and cracked up, I went ahead (after he had convinced me to give him my phone number) and went to the gym. I was half-smiling and shaking my head as I walked through to Landmark. And the day has ended there for me.

A few days later, an unknown number was flashing in my mobile phone. It could be one of the many dates my friends have been setting up with me. I picked up using my oh-so-sexy modulated voice. It was another guy's voice on the other end. Hmmmm. It was Mark, following up when I was going to their office to do my VTR file. I decided to go that same afternoon, considering I had nothing pending in the office...and to get this over and done with. Was I ready to go back to the showbizzy lifestyle that I turned my back on after the dreaded pox hit me in college? I dunno. Maybe. Maybe not. Or just maybe.

It was one VTR after another after that. Project toothpaste, project fast food, project seasoning, project beer, project paint, project realty, project canned good, project bank, project shampoo, project etc etc etc...but never have I gotten any. Yes. Almost two years of going to countless VTRs, sometimes making “footloose” (that’s an old term I picked up in the Mariana Islands to mean “takas”) from the office for a couple of minutes to an hour. From being the no-frills, no-arte person that I was (with my face that is, considering ‘twas already “damaged”, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the “beautification”), I got into the “requisite model regimen”—facials (which I totally dreaded, especially the pricking and shit part), moisturizers and sun blocks in the morning, cold creams at night, and of course, the magic “bulag” tool: the 3-in-1 concealer stick, or the mousse-type foundation cake...all for the darned VTR, with the hopes that one of us hundreds of hundreds of men in the cattle would land the coveted lead or supporting role in one of those commercials.

Perhaps, I have said my name, age and height, my last commercial done (duh, none), my hobbies, sports, thing I do for a living, and all those other stuff, endless times. Add to that, my acting—ahem—prowess had been put to the test for countless audition dramatics and workshops. I have likewise been paired with a great number of women (as their “husband”), men (as their “kuya”, “son”, or buddy), and children (as their “dad”). I’ve been on “stand-by” and “final casting” and “for fitting” and “for consideration” and “for presentation” forever…yet I got nothing. The worst was always the “stand by for final selection by client” which would get your hopes high, make you hold your breath, hang on a string and freeze-frame your entire life…only to be told last minute that you did not quite make the cut. Bummer.

It was nowhere but downhill for me. No commercials, no print ads (with the exception of that almost hardly non-gratis photo shoot for Earth + Style's real estate magazine ad, which was to appear in the June 2005 edition of MyHome magazine, it was really NADA for my so-called print ad career), no voice overs (except for that one "barya-barya" VO job I did for a pharmaceutical distribution firm, which consisted of almost nothing but "Win Your Battle, Win Your War"...and thus using my sexy, bedroom voice to be a commanding general to the "army" of the sales force), and no other even remotely showbizzy rakets in sight.

Somewhere in the middle of all the VTRs and auditions, my agent Mark met Floyd through me. I gave his number to Mark so that he (Mark) wouldn’t have to bother me when he needed Floyd for a VTR of sorts (which the latter hardly attends). I told him, “Hey, I’m not his manager. Go contact the goddamned guy, and talk to him yourself.” After some prodding (Mark is REALLY good with being pesky, lemme tell you that), he then asked him to file a tape for presentation to their clients, which he did. You must know at this point that Floyd has never done these things, and so is really new to the craft. But let me tell you this…not even six months later, he landed a big-ass budget print ad for Coca Cola Bottlers. And he hardly went to VTRs! I was like, “what the fuck?” Where the hell is my luck? How come everyone else gets something and I get nothing??!

I was in this state of thinking when I got another “stand by for final selection" from a VTR of some food seasoning. I made a little agreement with myself. I said, if this oh-I-can-feel-it-in-my-bones-it’s-my-upcoming-TVC-now goes out the door, I’m definitely gonna park it. And when I received a “Sorry, Ben, someone else got it” SMS from Mark—yet again—I decided showbiz was not for me (or must I say, not AGAIN). And so I quit…not that it had been my career anyway.

Some weeks later, Floyd’s very first newspaper (and later on magazine) ad came out. More than him, our friends and me, it was Nanay Yolanda (his mother who’s based in Bicol) who was overjoyed…replete with a framed version of the newspaper clipping hung on their living room. I, however, was in a reflective mood. I got to thinking: I’ve been doing this VTR and auditioning for almost two freaking years while Floyd’s done it not even half a year, and yet he seemed to have all the luck. Yes, at the time, I was a little jealous. But more than just that feeling, I was consumed by a strong feeling of dejection. I was mad at someone…something that caused all this. Why was Fate being so generous with him (and other people, for that matter) but with me, was being so parsimonious?! I retreated to my shell—the true blue Cancerian that I was—and refused to talk about anything related to my now defunct (AGAIN) career: I stopped replying to text messages from all my five agents from different casting agencies, and stopped going to VTRs altogether. Talk about absolute denial. I was Freud’s and Jung’s biggest nightmare in sheep’s clothing.

That episode lasted for quite some time and I was doing “well”…or at least a rejection-free existence. What was better than that? Absofuckinglutely nothing.

Some time in October, our agent Cheng SMS’d both Floyd and I for “Project Telecoms”. It was a weekend, the DVD marathons were on a hiatus at the moment, and I was bent on going out to get some fresh air…and some sanity from claustrophobia. Floyd soft-soaped me into going with him, and after some convincing and pleading and reassuring that we were just gonna do it to kill time and do fashion policing with the auditioners, I yielded. Thirty minutes later, we were queued up in one of the casting agencies at Citiland Towers—together with about 50 or so other men…all to just fill a lousy 3-male roles requirement of the client. I rolled my eyes as I sat to wait for my turn to VTR yet again.

An hour and a half later, I heaved a really bitter sigh and headed for the door. I’ve REALLY had it with these pointless VTRs. That was when the caster called out our names. WTF? It was almost literally in the nick of time. So we stayed on for a few more minutes. Ten minutes later, our VTR was finished. I knew I sucked big time, but then again, who the hell cares? I wasn’t interested anymore, and I couldn’t care less if some other model wannabe got the role.

Four days later, I got an SMS from Cheng. It was the “Stand by” text I was getting oh-so-weary of already. I didn’t even bother replying. By the end of the day, I received a “final selection” text from her, saying that there were just two of us being pitted against each other. My sister, who happened to be staying in my condo at the time was excited, and told me that that was a good thing. I just gave her a grunt, and texted Cheng a curt “OK”. An hour later, my heart froze at Cheng’s message, “Congrats. You got the role. You’re gonna love me for the TF, kuya. Let’s just say it’s A LOT. Fitting and workshop three days from now. Regalo ko ha!” My whole world spun for at least 30 seconds, and it took the doorbell (Floyd just arrived home) to snap me out of my disorientation. I told them about the good—no, GREAT—news and we were all excited all of a sudden. I was finally getting my big break.

I still couldn’t believe my new fate…until I was already signing the contract with my name, and—YES—the several-digit figure for the talent fee. I was still in disbelief while the PA’s were fitting me with my jailhouse orange construction worker overalls and Doc Martens safety boots. I kept half-expecting the director to shout “Cut!” and then I’d wake up on the same seat Floyd and I were seated while miserably waiting for our name to be called for that Godforsaken Project Telecoms at Citiland Towers. But it was all real. My time has, indeed, come.

After almost 11 hours of taping and makeup and costume changes and re-fitting and dubbing and eating (you would not believe the catered food!) and chitchatting with the co-models (did I just say “model”??? Yeah…I did!), I packed up, left the rest of the co-models (there I go again!) who were yet to finish their TVC shoot, and headed for home. Two weeks later, the photo shoot session was scheduled. The pictorial for the print ad took shorter than the TV commercial shoot. Way shorter.

December 9 was when the print ad and the TV commercial were supposed to simultaneously launch. Because of that, I mass-texted everybody and their mothers in my phonebook on December 8, and told them to grab the Sunday edition of the Philippine Star and wait for the primetime screening of the TVC. December 9 came and no TVC came out. I was advised the morning of the 9th that, apparently, editing took much longer than they anticipated, and their reels are still in Bangkok, where the editing was being done. The print ad was, however, where they were supposed to be. The funny part was, my shot was so tiny (read: barely 2.5 inches, in relation to the whole spread of the paper), one can hardly recognize me as me. Even my sister couldn’t make out my face. But I didn’t care. After all, I knew that that guy in the orange overalls superimposed on the majestic Burj Al Arab background was, indeed, me. A week later, the TVC finally did its debut. My sister and practically the whole world have seen it, but I have yet to see it…after two days still. Like the print ad, I was hard to make out. But again, at that point, I couldn’t care less. What matters was that I finally made it. And, yeah, yeah, the moolah was more than what I bargained for. So, no complaining there.

Two weeks later, the people of Globe and their agency re-edited the layout of the ad, conspicuously removed me from the whole collage of OFWs calling their loved ones in the Philippines. But before I could raise a WTF?? to my agent, a full spread of me, myself and I—ALONE—was in the Sunday paper, now plucked out of the Dubai role and placed as the requisite construction worker cum engineer of Oman, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia. With this new layout, where I was about almost one foot, in relation to the spread of the paper, you have got to be fucking blind to not recognize my face.

Two new, additional contracts were drawn by the agencies to have me sign again. More moolah, on top of the first contract, was consequently on the way. Luck (or blessing or good fortune or God knows what it’s called), after all, was just taking its sweet, sweet time. All I needed to do was wait…and it would be given to me…in my own time.

Yes, Lord. I know I failed You in the Patience test. And I apologize for that. But I am deeply beholden by your graciousness…of still giving me my reward despite how restless I have become. And for that, I promise to be more patient. I may still fail, but I will do my best not to fail you again. Amen.

Eeeeeeeeeekkk...EK!

delayed posting from November 21, 2006, 7:37 PM


I hate surprises. Yeah, I do. It’s just one of those things that make it high on my pet peeve list. If you don’t believe me, read my old blog entry “Bushwhackers”. Yeah, call me a retard, but I just really don’t see the point of almost literally pulling the rug under my feet, and while at it, marvel at the sight of my bewilderment and/or frenzy. And for what??? I scoff at the idea.

Having said that, I’d like to point out, however, that I hate being on the receiving side of the surprises. But if I am the one doing it, it’s perfectly OK. Hehehehehehe. In my defense, I hardly do surprise “attacks”. I just happen to have very sporadic attacks of pulling tricks—or in this case, surprises—off my sleeves. And when I do try and pull one off, boy, I tell you…it’s one hell of a production number.

Cut to next scene…some months ago at an Astrokids gimmick (not sure if it was the Tagaytay adventure, the Batangas getaway [wait a minute…why the hell haven’t I blogged about that???? Hmmm…I guess I’m making one shortly] or one of the Starbucks sessions). We were planning where we were going next—yes, that’s how and what we are: we live for the “lakwatsa”—when the idea of going to Enchanted Kingdom (EK) popped up. If I remember correctly, it was Carissa who blurted that out…because she hasn’t gone there. Ever. So while we “frequent visitors” raised our judgmental-but-not-necessarily-shaved-or-plucked eyebrows, Carissa insisted. What boggled us even more was that she wasn’t alone in wanting the next destination to be EK. Turned out, the other peeps who haven’t been—ever—to EK were Indy, Bong, and Floyd! These people have literally been around either the country or the world…and yet haven’t—ever (I dare say it again)—been seduced by the Sta. Rosa Exit attraction that is EK.

For some reason, the plan to head for EK had been botched not once, but twice (waiiiit a minute…that eerily made me feel like Susan Roces). Either someone’s child was sick (Indy and Bong are both fathers), or one had to go out of town—up North instead of in the South where they could just hook up with us at EK after their gig, or one couldn’t go because of budgetary constraints, or simply because the weather was really bad. Not that we were planning to have the entire Astrokids completed…but we all thought: if these four can’t join us at EK, then, why even bother? That was months ago.

Last Saturday, after carefully planning with Sheila, Neil, Jon and the kids a surprise Wala-Lang-Let’s-Head-For-EK-Day, one of the four Astrokids finally graduated from the EK Virgin category: Floyd. For like three weeks, I have secretly teamed up with wives or boyfriends of the four of them EK Virgins so that we could "distract" them into thinking that we were planning to go some place else. But what with the busy and conflicting schedules of almost all of them, I ended up concocting our "evil plan" only for Floyd. After all, he's the one who's so ultra-super-dying to get to EK like 'twas THE place to be. Poor baby. So we decided, he's the chosen one.

It was Sheila, her kids, her boyfriend, her brother Jonathan and I who masterfully crafted the whole thing: she texted Floyd and deluded him into thinking that they were passing by the condo with the kids on their way to the mall, and that we should feel free to join them malling. I also faked a "mild" migraine to cancel our earlier plan of going on an out of town trip. So a couple of hours beforer they arrived (we were already exchanging SMS and telling her to forbid her kids to even mention the words Enchanted, Kingdom, and Surprise to their Tito Floyd). I have prepared a seemingly light messenger bag for "malling"—but what was inside were a change of clothes (for possibly getting wet in one of the rides), water, and my ever-dependable (and strong!) Hawaiian Tropics SPF 75 sunblock lotion.

When Sheila and the rest of the gang arrived downstairs, we boarded her brand-spanking new car (Jonathan was driving), we did our customary kids-screaming-TitoBenTitoFloyd-at-the-top-of-their-lungs-as-they-are-hugging-us routine, and got introduced for the first time to her boyfriend. After that, we almost in unison declared "Let's hit the mall!" Everything was going according to plan!

Upon reaching Pasong Tamo, Sheila asked where we could find a BPI ATM facility, and Jonathan casually replied, "E di sa Enchanted na lang". Doggammit. We have successfully brainwashed the kids to block the existence of EK in that day's event, but conveniently forgot to tell Jonathan that it was a surprise thingee. Great.

Having blurted that, the surprise was already botched. And after having heard the word Enchanted, Floyd all of a sudden stopped talking (he was animatedly telling some story about his work), kept quiet for about five seconds, and upon apparently getting hit by the realization that we weren't really going to the mall and instead going to his ultraspecialsuperdooperovermegablockbustertothemaximum special place-to-be, and blurted out in his sheepish boylike demeanor, "Pupunta tayo sa Enchanted???"...and started crying. Lemme tell you...Sheila, the kids and I started cracking up. Although prematurely revealed, I'd say, the plan was a success. ;-)

About an hour later, after deciding--rather gripingly--not to pass by the Nike Outlets, we found ourselves traversing the Sta. Rosa Exit pathway to EK. A couple more minutes later, we were looking—a tad desperately—for parking. After settling for an undesirably remote spot, we began slathering ourselves with SPF70 sun block lotion, armed ourselves with a digital camera, hand towel, water bottle and trusty shades, and started our journey inside the enchanted kingdom.

Floyd was ecstatic...but Sheila, Neil, the kids and I were mesmerized by the sight of a first-timer—a virtual virgin, that is—who's enthralled with the sight, sound, and the experience. But aside from that, I was likewise busy scouring the EK horizon for the official mascot, the wizard. Why? Let’s just say that a good friend—who we will call ”Erick”—once told me that he has had some wild sexual activity with the Enchanted Kingdom Wizard. Whether they canoodled while Mr. Wizard still had his mascot costume on or not was something I really wouldn’t care to know anymore. But for that moment, I just wished to see him (the mascot, not Erick) in his full mascot glory, look him straight in the eye, grin my evil grin, say ”Hi”...and then tell him Erick sends his regards. I swear I will never look at mascots the same way again.

The kids were having lots of fun, but not as much as Floyd was. I gave them all the ultimate challenge: ride the Space Shuttle, which is by far the only really thrilling ride in that park. I got a no from everyone except for Floyd. Aaah. Brave boy. I guess we’d see about that later. So upon realizing that the queue (which snaked about 50 feet from the starting line up to where we were standing) was going to take more than a hop, skip and a giggle, we bid goodbye to Sheila, Neil and the kids and told them that we’ll meet them in an hour at the Food Court/Stage area. How we killed the more than one hour wait at the queue is something I can’t seem to imagine down to this day...but miraculously, I kept my cool, held a ”nice” stance, and made it to the railing next to the roller coasters. I could already feel the rush of the centrifugal force—nyehehehe...I know that wasn’t the term to use. I just felt like using some old Physics term. LOL—er the wind literally slapping my face and throwing my hair back and away from my scalp (wait, did I have bangs then? Damn right I did!!!). Floyd was pale and smiley and God-knows-what-other-emotions-he-had. We made it to the coasters, sitting at the second car, missing the front row seats by three seconds to those jologs ripe-guava-smelling kids from some school having an ”educational field trip” at EK. Two minutes later, the thrill of the ride was over. And so was the light of day. The Goddamned ride ate about an hour and a half of our schedule. Bummer.

After a couple more rides, a fireworks display later, a boring Grand Carousel time-waster, and a wild spin at the Rio Grande Rapids, we headed for home. At the South Luzon Expressway, Paolo cried out that he was hungry and that he was craving for some Pancake House food. We ended up stopping at the nearest rest stop/gas station. After ordering takeout food at KFC, we decided to hop to Starbucks and bless my 2007 Starbucks planner sticker card with not one, not two, not three, but FOUR Christmas-themed drink stickers. After all, I have once and for all succumbed to the gaga over Starbucks planner fever, which I have successfully shunned for the last two years of its promo. Hah. Nothing like a good smell of genuine leather and the feel of brown recycled paper in my planner. Once we’ve ordered our four steaming hot cups of Tall and Small and Venti and Grande caffeines, we settled in on one of the tables outside of Starbucks to have our coffees and eat our KFCs. We barely opened our KFC bags when the guard—in all his I’m-so-powerful-I’ll-whack-you-with-my-batuta glory and stance—reprimanded us and told us that we were prohibited to eat ”non-Starbucks food” on their tables. Putangina. That’s when I snapped. But being too exhausted to even bother giving in to the guard's delusions of grandeur, I let Floyd and Neil deal with the poor scum of the Earth. First things first: there was NO signage saying that bringing in of food—from a nearby resto, which by the way belonged in the same compound as where their establishment was—was prohibited. Secondly, I bought four freaking overpriced cups of coffee from them...and if my lack of Mathematical expertise wouldn’t influence my mental calculations, I’ve spent double what I spent for my fricking burger and soup from KFC...which means that my Starbucks purchase automatically trumps my KFC receipts. Thirdly, it wasn’t as if we were eating sinigang na bangus belly or inadobong pusit at halaan...ergo, we were not going to mess up their charming and prissy tables. Finally, they belonged to a fucking rest area/stop...and they were right beside at least four fast food chains. Why on Earth wouldn’t they anticipate that this was going to be a non-avoidable given? Mother of God. And to make matters worse, some other personnel from Starbucks—when asked why we were being shooed like basang sisiws—gave us a canned response, saying it was in compliance with Starbucks worldwide campaign of standardizing their look. Bullshit. I teach Customer Service, and I say standardizing never works...that you, as a foreign establishment in a [local] country need to adjust your ”standards” to the local branch’s quirks—in this case, the Filipinos’ love of food (mind you, we don’t just eat pastries and overpriced pastrami). The store supervisor came at the right time, i.e. barely two and a half seconds before I really gave those bullies an earful, which would definitely be heard by everyone else and their mothers having coffee outside, and told us that they will allow us to eat. My Lord. As if our basang sisiw at nauulul na sa gutom looks didn’t help us at all to effortlessly appeal for sympathy. I guess argumentum ad misericordiam never works anymore. Sad. Remind me to try bringing food at Starbucks Greenbelt next time...and see if this same routine holds.

EK down. Baguio to go. Ask Floyd why.